#and i love bones but that man has his own issues

[thatstartrekguy]

I like to think it's a Vulcan culture thing where couples serve each other food, like it's a way to show care/respect to feed/provide for each other (without having to get into mushy gushy feelings)

and this is why Spock is always handing Jim food/drinks, and Jim doesn't think anything of it bc Bones is constantly on him about eating (healthy) so he's used to the attention

but there are missions where he's off in his lil Jim world doing Captainly things, y'know being a good diplomat, and ppl will try to give him food but in the background they're getting the deadliest glare from his First Officer and no one knows why

[inkskinned]

nobody ever gets the mugshot of gluttony right. these days you think it has nothing to do with bodyweight. what a good trick: that gluttony could take a shape. no, there was never any fault in finishing a meal or in taking second helpings. it was always in taking from others that there was an issue - the oil baron's fingers steepled over dead bodies and stolen lands. gluttony - twin of greed, although most think greed and envy are the siblings - gluttony is pleased with the experience of gaining, is thrilled just-by-having. greed is the one that stays hungry, that has to move forever like a shark. gluttony likes it - "a glutton for punishment" is one who is seeking the harm, who loves the rush.

gluttony is a mother using her daughter's body for a diet testing ground, sharpening the bone angles. gluttony is saying why, well not! to the seventh and eighth mansion or yacht. it is not just wanting the six white horses, it is making sure that the horses came from your stables. it is not just bathing in milk - it is bathing in milk while others are starving.

oh, it's true that some sins still blaze in their bright floral prints. wrath in a white woman yelling at a person of color for even daring to be in her neighborhood. the red, incipient rage of a neck tightened at even the thought we would take the guns away. wrath has laurels, and she is good at her job, and works hard.

but sloth wasn't ever the sleepy morning of depression, the hours spent begging a clouded body to please move goddamn it; the protestant work ethic claiming even rest is somehow demonic. it was never chronic fatigue. sloth was subtle, a grey mist. she is watching you get bullied and she is deciding it is none of her business. she crosses the picket line because - what! it's just chicken, isn't it? she is closing her eyes and turning her head when the next anti-gay legislation passes. someone else will handle it. not the tense freeze of anxiety or a lack of preparation - she knows you're hurting and would rather you stay quiet about it. she tells other people i just don't see what the big deal is.

sloth is a father that doesn't do the dishes. sloth is your boyfriend's innocent shrug you're just better at household shit. sloth isn't the missed opportunity - it is the purposeful desire to just get-someone-else-to-do-it.

greed and envy are doing body shots in the back of a private jet. they are the way they always have been, but are lovers in the age of the internet. greed just finished union busting, is rolling a bitcoin over his knuckles, is about to start another MLM. envy is in a broadbrimmed hat, showing off her instagram life, grinning about how if you want it, work for it.

okay, it's true. you have a soft spot for lust, gathering dust in a corner. so tame in comparison to the others. but how funny lust is always painted as being a woman in tight clothes. you've met actually lustful women - the ones that purposefully climb into your partner's lap, the ones that say lesbians are gross but ask bisexual women into bed with their husbands. a lustful woman is not donned in lace and garters and red: that's how men think lust looks, painting their own sins into frame. this way, the sin displaces as fog and hovers above her: a woman in a dress is lust; what the man experiences is just the natural consequence.

here is the thing: lust is doing just fine, save your pity. lust is running more circles than any of them. lust is shutting down safe sexwork sites while also making teenagers in knee-high socks sex sensations. lust is CEO of an advertising network where women never pass 25 years old. all the bras lust makes are pretty to look at but, when worn, legitimately hurt. lust has a podcast, his fur coat looped around his shoulders, sells the idea that only certain people have value, that sex raises some and destroys others. lust is tilting his head and asking what did you expect when you dress like that? lust shuns you, sneers that everything you want is disgusting and taboo - right until he can figure out how to capitalize off of it. lust has the midas ability: everything he touches becomes an object.

people usually say wrath is the scary one. you agree with FMA here, though: the real dangerous one is pride, and the shit-eating grin. the white cloaks and the nationalism and the inability to apologize. it is every partner who threw a book at your head because you don't respect him. it is every mother who said my son doesn't deserve to have his life ruined over allegations. it is the teacher that fails you because you talked back.

you worry you have this one. you feel guilty when you need help but don't ask for it. prideful. ashamed when you complete something and feel good about it. too proud for your own good. but pride is not the reward of hard work or accomplishment: pride is a twitter feed. it is the thing that has to mask i didn't do anything with look at me.

pride is your father's raised hand, his raised voice. how he was never there when you needed him, but he is still "head of house." he ruins dinner and blames it on you: you're an embarrassment to this family. this is the glass you walk around, the cuts in your feet. how he says this isn't how i raised you and you have to bite back the retort: that's because you didn't actually fucking raise me.

[hwan-g]

( 𝑻𝑬𝑬𝑻𝑯 ) ୧ ⠁

ೀㅤ۪ pairing. biker/drug dealer! chris x fem! reader : genre. age gap, dark romance, angst, smut : warnings. read at your own risk — mdni ! use of pet names, smoking, explicit sexual content, possessiveness, obsession, severe anger issues, violence, flawed characters that make mistakes : word count. 10.1k

ೀㅤ۪ synopsis. he was born with a gun in his hand, a ticking time bomb in his head. it’s been counting down since, the brain has festered into a landmine, a battlefield. no. peace is a foreign word. reserved only for you.

PROLOGUE.

You cannot begin telling this story if you don’t first punch your own mouth. His gun, safety off, shiny and awful in the dead of night, the barrel of it pointing at your temple, a patient irony. It’s three in the morning and the red bleeding is sweet, oh so sweet.

There’s no love without violence, sweetheart, and did you know? He loves you so much, he’ll kill you. He loves you so much, you’re calling for help. Of course, it cannot be your voice, and if he gives you another chance, you’ll say everything differently this time around like—this bed is where he fucked me slow and rough, I think he was trying to bury some part of himself in me, and here, you see, the sheets smell just like his cigarettes, and this, here, is where he brushed my hair, just like this, so careful, but never mind the cracks in the mirror, the shattering is always the same, it has nothing to do with me, everything to do with him.

You hear his voice in your head all the time, haunting, your dutiful ghost; he’s there when you sleep, he’s there when you wake up, a nightmare concealed as a daydream, and you want him to do his worst, you want it to hurt, to scar, to be a permanent mark, because it’d mean you’d loved him; that love has been here and it was ugly and terrifying, and you survived it, even if you could never survive him.

Upstairs, the bed is unmade, stained with wine and your climax. Chris is gentle in all the ways he is not, which is to say he kisses you with teeth, he holds you with fists. You saw him on a black motorcycle once, an impressionable girl in a dark place, lost, searching for purpose, and he looked like a knight in shining armor, he looked like hell and heaven combined, a savior and captor, and you’d wished to crawl inside, to make a home out of him. You’d smiled and waited, you've always waited, you always will.

When he came, he was so cruel, he burned brighter than fire—you believed in him; after all, how can a man be so consumed by flame and not put his own hands around his neck, not succumb to his charcoal painted flesh? You were a fool, and he saw it, and you paid the price for it. He wants to keep you forever now, he’s never going to let you go, do you understand that? Why, why, why did you go ahead and do that?

For what? A scrap of metal heart and a ribcage, bone and muscle?

What about your own heart?

What about the eternal winter residing when he's not there?

ACT ONE: before.

He smiles and the world expands. His face blooms into a thousand different shades; the pink of his mouth curving, the red of his cheeks rounding, the dark of his brow straightening. A stop motion picture, the beginning of autumn, the turn of the leaves, the crisp air replacing warm winds.

His fingers weave through yours, interlocking, thumb running down index, mouth a breath over yours, so close he could graze your lips if he wanted to. You look between you, noses touching, then back to brown so deep you imagine raw honey gliding, real amber in the face of the sun.

Chris. You whisper his name in your head. It sounds like a secret. Your best kept one. Chris, Chris, Chris . . .

There’s blood on his shirt underneath the leather jacket. There’s a loaded gun on his belt strap, a knife tucked in his boot, a razor engraved on the ring he wears, and he’s not so careful with it, and you don’t think you want him to be. You assume it’s normal to want this—if his blood mixes with yours, well, isn’t that enough to take you with him? Isn’t that almost a wedding ceremony, isn’t that almost a declaration of war?

Do you think I’m crazy, you think to yourself. Do you think I’m crazy, would you want me if I am, would you want me, do you want me? You don’t dare say it out loud, but he’s staring at you as if he could eat your face raw—a demon, a demon—and shove the rest of you in the deep freezer, so you decide to bite him instead. You get on your tippy toes and nuzzle into his neck, biting the soft flesh underneath his earlobe.

He doesn’t exclaim, not a hiss, not a gasp, not even the slightest of inhales. He withstands the pain you inflict him, and you feel his desire digging into the inside of your thigh. His arms reach out around you, pulling you to him in that all-encompassing way, and you’re left to witness what can only be the slow consumption of your beating heart. His bike groans under the sudden weight, but he’s got you. You don’t think, then, of what that entails.

“(Y/N).”

The night sky comes into focus, all dark indigo, starless, and the streetlights flicker bright, sounding the late hour. The light never seems to go anywhere near you two, it refuses, it hesitates, and back then you found it all so mysterious and exciting, ignoring the warning bells, swallowing down the instinct of danger, danger, danger.

“Yes?”

Your eyes fall shut at having his rough palm grabbing hold of your face, thumb tilting your head upwards to meet his sizzling gaze. You hold onto his wrist for support, your body floating, mourning the loss of his body heat against the biting cold. He notices this, and moves to shrug off his huge jacket, wearing it over your shoulders in one swift move.

“What will I do with you?” It’s a plea. A threat. Both.

Chris looks down at you, and the earth shakes to its core. He looks down at you, and you don’t want to be alone anymore. You want this, this, this, every day, all the time, forever. You wish to wake up in bed next to him and know he’s yours, wake up and not wish for some other dream so you can find him again. To be awake and want to be awake.

His big hands caress your face, sink into your hair. He stares at you intently, as if he’s holding back from saying whatever’s turning over and over in his head. It can switch so fast, that look, faster than you can blink, a clipped temper, a quick anger. 

You’ve only seen it once, and you’d been quickly turned away. He’s got people watching everywhere, he’s been haunted by darkness and shadows long before you served him that drink in The Bloody Muse. You almost forget about returning to your shift, time slipping away, responsibilities fading whenever you’re near him.

Seungmin will be missing you, Felix will be looking for his good luck charm before he goes on stage. Midnight means you return from dreamland. Still, you have a couple of minutes left. Enough to hear the gunshot, enough to panic and let out a scream and have Chris slap a hand over your mouth, willing you with his gaze to calm the fuck down.

You breathe hard, stiff with fear. He appears perfectly composed, relaxed even. It’s then you realize who he is and what he does, and how this is probably his or his club’s doing. There’s misdirected anger in you ricocheting on all corners. You want to bite his fingers, you want to demand an explanation. You work here, dammit, and he’s kept his bullets away from this place so far, for what you thought was your sake.

Chris was a handsome hypocrite, a skilled liar.

“It’s not what you think,” he says simply, removing his palm from your mouth, shaking his wrist off. “Don’t overreact.”

All of his previous warmth disappeared, instead, the cold, menacing man you know very little of and have never dealt with taking its place. You understand he has to be this way, but you hate that he has to act like this with you too. Because of your reaction. Because you couldn’t keep your cool.

Silly girl.

“What is it, then?” A naive question, so many untrue answers he could give you.

He passes a finger over the cut on your cheek. The cut he gave you. You lean into his touch, desperate for anything, hungry, starving, even. You don’t want him to leave, but he won’t stay. You hate, hate, fucking hate this part.

“Something that needed to be taken care of,” he chooses the words carefully, you can tell, and you decide that, if he wants you to stay in the dark, you will. You have to.

You love him.

“Someone,” you correct, quietly.

Chris smiles, mouth curving, and his hand moves to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The touch is tender, affectionate. Something inside you cracks and caves, it melts. You would withstand too, you think then. You would deal with anything, put up with everything, for that single touch. For that one single look.

“Someone,” he echoes, his own voice smooth blue velvet, an overture. “You should get inside.”

A sharp pang of bitterness in your chest. “I should?” Because I questioned you?

He drops his hand, and brings his arms over his broad chest, crossing them there. Closed off and done for the night. You unconsciously take a step back, hurt from the sudden change, whiplashed and upset.

“If you don’t want to be late,” he states matter-of-factly, but he says it in this kind of open tone, a mere suggestion rather than a complete dismissal. Yes. “Don’t look at me with those damned eyes, sweetheart, what can I do against them?”

You wipe at your cheeks, and try to fix the mess, try to smooth over, to make right again. “I’m not, I’m sorry.”

“Come here.” A command. 

You go like a kicked puppy, your leash short, your loyalty unshaken, despite the scolding. He reaches out and slams you to his chest, a hand pressing the back of your head there, and you inhale him, all of him, memorizing his scent, trying to hold on to whatever parts of him you can in case he decides to never come back for you again. It’s pathetic and it’s pitiful, but this is what you know. This is all you know.

“You’re my girl, you know that?” He mumbles in your hair, his breath hot on your scalp. You lean into him, wrapping your arms around him, and almost cry yourself dry from the prospect of ever losing him. 

You’d die. You’d die, it’s entirely unthinkable. It’s the worst pain imaginable. 

“You’re my girl, baby. I’d never let anything happen to you. Do you believe me?”

You nod your head yes. He squeezes you against him tighter. You feel so safe, then, the safest you ever have. Of course you believe him. You’d believe his every word, you’d follow him into anything, blindly, willingly. You want to please him. To make him happy.

He grabs a fistful of your hair, suddenly and pulls you back to look at him. His eyes are manic, black. “I need your words, (Y/N). Do you believe me?”

“Yes. Yes,” you yelp, your mouth falling open from the sting.

In your stomach, something lights on fire. You rub your legs together, trying to relieve it. He glances down between you, curses. 

You started it. 

The descend. 

It was your fault. 

He’d never touched you so savagely before that night, he’d never shown the same need you had. That he could want you the same way you do. . .You felt so giddy you could squeal, so happy you would gladly reduce yourself to schoolgirl-and-her-stupid-little-fantasies.

“Is this fucking getting you wet?” And he pulls harder, tilting your head all the way. His tongue comes out to lick from the base of your neck all the way up to your lips. You’re on fire, you’re on fire! You moan hoarsely and try to keep your footing. “You like me being rough with you, sweetheart?”

You’re too embarrassed to respond. So, you guide his hand under your skirt. Chris curses again, more lewdly this time, nasty things, words you’ve never heard him say before. Oh, this fucking cunt, fuck me . . . So goddamn wet, baby girl, I bet it tastes so sweet. Will you let me? Will you let me have a taste right here?

“I— I have to go back, I’m—” but his fingers are already dipping into your underwear, his palm cupping your burning sex.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he growls into your ear. “You hear me?”

You jump, and look around, paranoid. He grabs your face and forces your eyes back on him. He’s got that crazed look again, the one that lets you know he’ll stop at nothing to have this. Out here, in the open. And he’ll fucking make it worth it. You succumb, too flushed, too bothered, unbecoming in his arms, as he backtracks you into the wall next to the exit door, and gets on his knees, tugging your undergarments down with both hands, hooking your leg over his shoulder.

Your fingers dig into his hair, dark eyes staring up at you. In your mercy, kneeling in front of you. Do you love me? Is this you, saying it? Is this your way of showing it? You caress the soft strands, staring back, overwhelmed. The beginning of the end for you. You’ll never escape him after this. He’d never accept it. You’d never survive it.

When his face gets lost in between your legs, you almost collapse, your entire body shaking with the forceful need to come. He licks and laps and sucks your clit into his mouth, and it’s too much, it’s fucking unbearable, it’s incredible, it’s so much, it’s everything, you want more, you want him to stop, more more more, oh my God, please, please—you’re being so loud there’s no way they haven’t heard that, that Seungmin hasn’t, he’s really only around the corner, and what about everyone else, oh God, oh God, you’re close, you’re so fucking close, if he could just—oh, fuck yes, fuck yes . . .

Chris pulls away, his lower face glistening with your juices. You whine at the loss of contact, your pussy clenching around nothing, aching. 

“Don’t fucking come,” and he’s getting up, he’s unzipping his pants, and you’re eager to help, you’re eager to reach inside and grab him, free him. “I have to get inside you, baby.” 

His cock is standing rock hard, angry. He wraps one hand around your neck, and the other slides over his length once, twice, you’re so entranced you can’t look away; he’s so big, he’s so erect, and you want him so fucking much, you’d do anything right then, you’d be anything.

He turns you around, and you barely have time to get a good grip on the wall, before he’s entering you with one long, violent thrust. You scream out, pressing your temple on the cool brick, allowing him to take whatever he needs. His fingers squeeze around your neck, tighter and tighter still, until all you see is stars, until all you feel is him slamming into you, his hot body over yours, your mixed moans of pleasure.

I could come to this image forever . . . Look at this fucking ass, you beautiful fucking girl, I never want to stop . . . fucking tear you apart, lay inside you . . . Taking cock so well, made for me, made for me, made for this . . .

His movements turned sloppy and primal, reaching the end, and you, forever following him, forever after him. He was no more than beast, pistoling into you with vigor, all animal, your sides bruised from the way he was holding onto you, but you loved it, you wished he’d never stop, exploding into a million pieces, coming apart under him in vibrant streaks of color and tears. His head dropped on your lower back, whispering there she is, there you go, sweetheart, there you are, my baby, as he gave one, two, three final thrusts, before reaching down and removing himself from your soaking cunt, flipping you around, and forcing you on your knees, his cock in his hand, on the verge of climax.

You open your mouth wide, and he shoves in, fucking into it no more than three seconds before you feel his cum hit the back of your throat, warm and salty. 

“You fucking vex me, woman. Look at the sight of you.”

You breathe through your nose slowly, as he grabs your face and makes sure you swallow, fingers rough, before pulling out at once, tucking his softening length back in his jeans, and lifting you up by the waist.

He fixes your skirt over your ass, and smoothes over the edges, making sure no indecent part of you shows. When you catch his eye, he winks at you. You bubble over like a soda can, spilling everywhere, and he chuckles low and raspy, before reaching for your hand and pulling you flush against him, trailing kisses on your shoulder, your knuckles, your cheeks, your brow.

This is the Chris that looks at you and sees you. The one you love, the one you miss the most when he’s gone. This Chris comes out only when you’re alone, when he’s forgotten what else there is, what he has to do after you go back to the club. For now, he loves you, no violence, no hunger.

You almost weep at the sight of him.

“I’ll talk to your boss,” he murmurs, pecking your lips over and over.

You giggle, and he twirls you once, your arms extending as you try to go towards the door. He pulls you back in at the last minute, handsome, glowing, smiling.

“I haven’t lied to you,” he says, and half of you doesn’t miss the solemn way in which he says it. “I won’t let anyone touch you. Ever.”

You pause for a split second, still remaining in the post bliss of your orgasm, but then you’re moving again, slipping from his grasp, heading back to your drinks and suggestive conversations.

“I wouldn’t want to be touched by anyone else, Chris,” you retort, blowing him a kiss, and disappearing through the big black door, letting it close behind you.

You don’t see the way you leave him standing there, how he closes his eyes and has to breathe through the loss of you; how he drags his feet to go pick up his jacket from the floor. How he inhales your sweet smell, and instantly wants you back, a corpse in his arms that can’t go nowhere.

The corruption began when you told him your name. It invaded his bloodstream and blackened his mind.

He’d rather kill you than have you walk away from him like that.

ACT TWO: in the midst.

Chris fucks you with the purpose of possessing you.

There’s not a minute of peace when you are with him, he envelops all senses, he erases all other thoughts, until all you know is him, his touch, his cock. Months into sharing a bedroom, and coming apart underneath him every night, he’s never once mentioned that incident, the first one.

He’s never apologized for how he treated you, never brought it up. But he’s never once treated you the same since. Now that you live together, he gets to call all the shots, know your exact whereabouts, control what you wear, what you eat, how you come, how many times—he’s fucked you in places you never thought possible. He’s fucked you in front of people, shamelessly; on the banister, in the pool, on the kitchen counter and the office. Against walls and on the hood of his car, parked in the garage, Changbin, the road captain, working on his bike not a few steps away.

No one ever said anything to you, tried anything. They didn’t have a death wish, or they respected Chris too much. His influence was a testimony to his abilities. No one questioned him, but everyone obeyed him. They treated you like one of their own, they protected you when their sergeant would leave the house.

Other things—the shitload of drugs hidden in every trinket, every crevice, places you’d never think to check, and the meticulous way they deliver said product, how the trucks come in the middle of night, motorcycles deconstructed, filled to the brim with cocaine and sent to wherever, distributed to whatever unfortunate person. Chris never touched the trucks, you never saw him near them.

That was Minho’s job.

You spent entire days in bed after the deliveries, fucking, improvising stories of hunters and angels falling in love, how the hunter is always attracted to the angel’s light, how the angel forgives the hunter for his nature, and willingly dies by his axe. Chris bathes you and washes your hair with lavender, then carries you over to the vanity and brushes the strands with such care, you think he’s always loved you, in every life. That, perhaps, he was born loving you, and that this was predetermined; inescapable, inevitable.

He doesn’t sleep. He spends hours making love to you, feeding you; he works for even longer, meetings with the president, meetings with the suppliers, mountains of paperwork that you see him burn afterwards in the fireplace downstairs. If he does close his eyes, it’s flitting, twenty minutes here, an hour there; after he comes down from the high of being buried inside you, after a shower, at night as he watches you sleep, you pretend to close your eyes and feel him get comfortable on your stomach, his lips kissing any spot of naked skin he can find. When he does drift off, you lift your head and observe a man such as Chris Bahng sleep, how he does it, so unaware and off guard, so unlike his usual self.

It’s endearing. You love him the most when you find him in those positions, so peaceful, and a part of you thinks, ashamed—at least no one is dying by his hand tonight. His soul is something you think about a lot, the wretched, poisoned thing, paying for his actions. You asked him once; what keeps him up, why is he so unable to fall asleep?

“Nightmares,” he mumbled against your neck, teasing the sensitive flesh there. “Every time I close my eyes . . . someone is waiting for me. It’s always different, but they always end up dead. Everyone I care about— you. When you’re in my dreams, I can’t stand it. I’m always the one holding the gun. You’re always falling, or— fucking . . . walking away from me. When I wake up, I always check if you’re next to me,” his hand travels to yours, interlocking your fingers. He avoids your gaze. “If you’re not, it’s . . . it gets hard to breathe. I think I’ve killed you, that I’ve finally fucking lost it and, and done it, and the walls close in around me . . . Christ, I sound fucking insane.”

It’s difficult for you to say anything after that, so you slowly make your descend at the foot of the bed, making sure to kiss every inch of him, to let him know you’re right there, that he’ll never lose you, that the day it’ll come to that you’d rather he does kill you, that he does make that decision for you, because you’d have clearly gone mad; you cannot see yourself beyond him, cannot see a future where he’s not there, even as a fixture, even as someone who’s loved you once, a very long time ago. A friend, a lover, it’s all the same, and it’s all him, and you’ll always get whatever version of him you can.

You know you sound crazy, and maybe you are, maybe you deserve each other in that way, but it’s irrelevant to this story. This is not for the faint of heart—loving someone like him does not come easy, it’s not one of those ridiculous words—fate or destiny—or anything simple like that; loving him is hard fucking work, it’s torment and agony, it’s excruciating, and it’s a choice you make every single day, because you need it to live. An addiction, perhaps, though you’ve never been an addict.

You know this is how it feels. The needle in the vein. The snow on your nose. The smoke in your lungs. The burning, the boiling. This is it. When you take his cock in your mouth, when you hear that broken gasp fall from his lips, the familiar groan, the guttural sounds from the back of his throat, and how he grabs the back of your head, forcing you down to the hilt of him; when you’re so full you might as well inhale him entirely, become part of his crotch, his most private part, the one he keeps to himself—you think this is what it’s like to wait on someone’s steps, a beggar, a desperate girl giving her heart on a silver platter for the one in the house, the one holding the reins.

Chris is kind and generous. He opens the door, he allows you to come inside. There’s light and warmth here, but there’s also shadows in the corners, there’s locked doors and no one else around. It’s a lonely house, but he’s right there, all you need, all you’ll ever need. He welcomes you with open arms.

You get lost in the labyrinth of him.

“What the fuck was I doing before you, sweetheart? Who was I, who was I without this fucking mouth, fucking hell, baby . . .”

It’s a savage act, some would call it cannibalism, but it’s only been known as love to you. Your insides are aflame, roasting a pretty crackling orange, when he finally comes on your tongue, his hips lifting, eyes shut tight, your head in his big hands, keeping you there, making sure you’re swallowing every last drop. You do. You do. You‘re licking circles around the shiny, swollen tip one moment, and he’s got you bouncing on it the next, manhandling your ass, facing you away from him, wrapping muscular arms around your waist, ravaging your back with his teeth, biting and soothing, putting out the forest fires himself, braving the danger.

A devouring hunger. Stripped to its most primal state. Everything within you is jumping. No one talks about this—screwing for the sake of the flesh. You need to come, and keep coming, and he does too. There’s no other thought, no other reason. He’d mount you if he could, knot in you for hours, pump you full of his seed. If this is the way it’s meant to be, then let it be. Let him fuck you until he’s satiated. Let him fuck you into your last dying breath.

But his words. You want those for yourself. He whispers them in your ears, his mouth everywhere, the hotness of his breath, the raspiness of his voice—just as lost as you. This is how you need him.

“This cunt is mine, fucking mine, mine . . . Say it,” he drills into you, skin slapping on skin, sweat like water, and your tears, so uncontrollable, so many— “Say it, damn you.”

“Yours,” you comply, your arm reaching out to wrap around his neck. He kisses your shoulder, he bites, he marks. “All of me. Forever.”

“Swear it. Don’t ever leave me.”

“No . . . no . . .” You moan loudly as he reaches deep inside, to spots that make you see stars.

He shoves your face in the mattress, and gets on top of you, pistoling his length into you, hard and fast, chasing after the high he craves. You cry out and take it. The pain is so intense, bleeding into pleasure, overwhelming your body. You can’t feel your own heartbeat anymore, only Chris, only his pounding.

“Such a goddamn slut. Look at you,” he slaps your ass once, “fucking look at you,” twice, three times, four. You sob into the sheets, grab onto them. He’s relentless, he’s so close, you’re so close— “Why are you crying, huh?” He pulls you by the hair hard, lifting your head. You gulp down air, you’re glutinous, deprived. “Did you need my cock that bad? Have I not fucked your needy little hole enough?”

“You have, you have, please . . .”

Let go for me, sweetheart, fuck, you feel so fucking good . . . Never get tired of this pussy, taking me so well, baby, so fucking well, come on, one more, one more, that’s it . . .

Coming felt like the gates of heaven liquifying inside you. Your orgasm tore through you so savagely, you forgot how to breathe for several moments, your limbs unresponsive and extremely sore. Only thing you could do was convulse under Chris’ massive body, and let him ride his own, his nails digging into raw flesh, voice groggy and incredibly deep after three rounds of sex.

“Did I hurt you? Did I hurt you, baby?”

You hadn’t realized you were still crying ugly, terrible sobs. You immediately missed the weight of him as he got off you at once and flipped you on your back, panic-stricken honey eyes searching your face, your chest, any part of you he might’ve harmed.

“Where does it hurt? What have I done?” He kisses your temple, your eyes, he tastes your tears. He’s so worried you almost feel guilty for not responding. “(Y/N), I need you to tell me, sweetheart, I can’t see it, I can’t—is it your—”

“I’m fine,” you pacify him, placing your hands on either side of his face. You’re still breathing abnormally fast, but so is he. The room is spinning. “You didn’t hurt me anywhere, I’m fine, Chris.”

“But if you were, you’d tell me, yeah?”

He was so handsome, so handsome when he loved you.

“I would.”

His gaze was piercing, honeycomb giving way to molasses. His hands were trailing off again, doing their own thing, what they knew best; how to please you. His thumb on your clit, rubbing soft circles, your creamy entrance making lewd sounds that had the man over you growing impossibly hard again.

“And what about this?” A warm, tingly sensation grew low in your belly. “Does this hurt?”

You trap his hand with your thighs, and he smiles. You smile back.

“Maybe a little,” you lie, stretching.

He doesn’t let up. His fingers slip inside again, his other hand moving on himself, veiny and sure. Chris masturbating to the sight of getting you off is perhaps the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. Your body is a tool he’s acquainted well with, and has made his sole expertise. So many hours on this bed, learning each other naked.

“Your cunt says something else,” he smirks, pumping his fist over his girth slowly, deliberately, growling low in the process, making you wetter, making you want, want, want. A chain of chemical reactions, you’ve become. “I wanna eat you out, (Y/N), you think you’ll be able to handle that?”

Yes. Yes, yes, yes.

“I’ve been thinking about it all day,” he mumbles on your stomach, placing a kiss there, and traveling down, nose dangerously close to where you want him most. “Your face when you come apart on my tongue—I wish I could die between your legs, baby.”

“Don’t say that,” you hide your face in embarrassment, as you feel him get in position, opening your legs wide, staring shamelessly at your swollen pussy.

“I’ll say whatever the fuck I want,” he licks it once, tongue pressing flat on your clit and flicking, and you’re fucking gone. You’re writhing, trying to get away, moaning so loudly the whole house must’ve heard you. “This is mine, you’re fucking mine, and you’re so goddamn beautiful.”

He doesn’t get to work much on you, you’re coming apart in minutes. You’re so overstimulated, your legs are shaking uncontrollably, the muscles twitching. He doesn’t seem to care though, because he’s fingering all of your cream on his cock and finishing himself off, an ungodly sight, something out of a renaissance painting, the most explicit one, all well defined abs and veins popping on his neck, mouth formed into a perfect silent scream, as he pumps, and pumps and shoots on your thighs, white thick streaks, hot and sticky.

There’s a knock on the door, a throat clearing.

“Bahng,” Changbin’s voice. “It’s important.”

The room drops in the negatives. You see the abrupt change on your boyfriend’s face, his expression freezing over, his jaw clenching, moving, as he stares at the door like he wants to break it, and then beat his friend’s face in. You get on your elbows and whisper softly, “It’s okay,” to which he ignores.

“What the fuck do you want?” He calls out, furious, getting off the bed and grabbing a pair of discarded jeans from the floor.

“Meeting in ten,” his captain replies, and then there’s footsteps shuffling away.

“I need to shower, anyway,” you try to lighten the mood, reaching over the bed for your shirt. “We’ve been holed up here for hours. I don’t even know what time it is.”

“Why do you need to know?”

You don’t let his tone ruin what you’ve been building for the entire day. He was perfectly fine up until two seconds ago, it has nothing to do with you. You repeat this to yourself as you move around the room, clipping the hair away from your face, wiping the makeup from your cheeks.

“It’s really alright, Chris, you’ll only be gone for a bit.”

He ignores this as well. What he does—he takes two big strides towards you and grabs your face roughly. You meet his eyes, dark and menacing, and keep your cool. You don’t let his anger scare you, you’ve seen it all before. It has nothing to do with you, it has nothing to do with you.

“All you need to know, is I’m still in this fucking room and you smell like my cum, and there’s a lot of fucking things I can do in ten minutes,” he snarls, patting your hair down, bringing your hips together. “All you need to know is you have no use for clocks, because you’re not going anywhere. Am I fucking clear?”

You try not to let your body take over your mind, as it’s happened many times before. He knows your weak spot, he knows how good he can make it feel, and he uses it to his advantage any chance he gets. 

You will not be manipulated. You will stop falling for his words.

“You’re going to regret saying that,” you retorted, suddenly sad. “You’re only being like this because you want to stay.”

To that, he visibly calms, he mellows. “Of course I do. I never wanna be anywhere else. I wanna fuck you until you’re on the verge of passing out, and then I want to take you in the water and make it all better,” he tries to kiss you but you turn your head. There are no words to describe the hurt etched on his face, then. “You’re the only thing that matters, (Y/N). The only true thing.”

“Why do you treat me like this, Chris? Hot, then cold, again and again.”

You might’ve as well slapped him. He untangles himself from you at once, and walks over to the closet for a shirt. Your stomach drops. You definitely said something you shouldn’t have. Who knows how he’ll be now, what he might do. You might not see him for days. He knows how to hurt you and keep hurting you. One coin, two sides.

Nevertheless, you have to know. He never gives you any answers. You’ve given away so much to be here, to be with him. He walks the thin line of having something like that, a line between holding you—broken glass on his shaking palm, recklessly picking up the pieces when they fall, unafraid of the blood, of the cutting and maiming, and the repercussions afterwards.

His self destructiveness has never been more prominent before. Now it’s all you see.

“One true thing, Chris. Please.”

He looked so severe, the set of his jaw, the glint in his eye. When he punches the closet door closed and smashes the mirror with his fist, you don’t think he’s quite there in the room with you anymore. He’s in that faraway place again, in that hole, so hard to find.

Of course, the blood. The blood is always there. It’s been there from the start.

He motions for you not to move, his hair a mess sticking in all directions. Such violence and it’s all within him, there’s nothing you can do to pull it out of him. Only when it lashes out, only when he becomes the weapon.

“Don’t fucking come near me,” he barks, and you stop, you remain perfectly still, your gaze locked to his knuckles, bleeding profusely, staining the carpet. “I will never hurt you,” he rasps, and there’s iron will behind his words. “I will never fucking hurt you, I’d sooner die. I’d sooner fucking die . . .” His eyes fall closed, his breathing deepens, and you’re pretty sure you only have a few seconds before this all goes to shit.

You grab your clothes, and shoes, and where’s your phone, where’s your stupid phone—

“Get out of here. Get out of here now.”

You bite your lip until you taste copper. You won’t cry. You won’t fucking cry. This is not your fight. This is not your problem.

“I love you,” you squeeze out, before you throw the door open and spill down the stairs, the beast bellowing behind you, “GET THE FUCK OUT, GET THE FUCK OUT.”

“What the hell’s going on?” Changbin puts his hands out, grabs your shoulders. 

Felix doesn’t even have to look at you; he curses, and climbs the stairs three at a time, calling for backup. The demolition has already begun.

You won’t cry. You refuse, you refuse, you refuse.

There’s no love without violence, sweetheart, and did you know?

ACT THREE: intermission.

In a fight, he’s devastating.

You’d told him time and time again, none of it meant anything, not a thing, just some mindless flirting to get better tips, it was part of your job, it was silly, little, nothing, nothing at all. You’d warned him against coming inside the Muse. It’d only cause trouble.

He would only cause trouble. It’s why he had Minho permanently positioned in there, it’s how the club was under Strays payroll, it was his excuse for visiting that night.

Making sure the product was being distributed properly. Keeping an eye out. Bullshit. You were so mad at him. He never showed up for these things, they went through other people. Chris was too important for it. And yet, here he was, disrupting your workflow, beating your regulars into a pulp.

You didn’t recognize anything from the man he was the last time you saw him. He had none of the tenderness, none of the ember in his gaze, no softness; only sharp, obliterating cruelty and the gun on his strap. His fists were bloody, his anger palpable.

Your tables had emptied out, unpaid. You were so angry.

“Try it, motherfucker,” your boyfriend smashed the poor guy’s head against the hardwood floor, repeatedly, in succession, until your voice was scratched raw from shouting for someone to stop him. “Try getting near her again, let me see you. Walk a straight fucking line to my girl, see if you get to live another goddamn day.”

“I didn’t know she was your girl, man! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” The man had been reduced to tears, his face so beat up you could barely make out his features under all the blood.

Minho stood in one corner, observing passively, while Seungmin tried to keep his friend back, ever the security guard. Chris was gone, though. There was no way to bring him back. There’d be a death tonight, and all of you would have to pretend it never happened. You think about that. About the first time you lied for him. For them.

“Bet you wanted to fuck her, hm?” He pulls his head up, only to bring him to his knee, kicking his nose broken, and throwing him back on the floor, chairs wobbling and falling over in the storm of him. “That’s what you’ve been coming for, isn’t it, you sick fuck?”

The whimpering is what did it for you. “I didn’t know. Please! Please!” You couldn’t just stand aside; you couldn’t let this go on.

The stage was empty, the band long finished with their set, now sitting at the counter over at the bar, glancing curiously your way. It was infuriating how none of them wanted to get involved. It was too late for this. Too fucking late, and you were tired.

So, you walked over to where Chris was stomping on the man’s ribs, making sure you were in his line of vision. When you got as close as you could, you called out his name. Nothing. You tried again.

“Chris. Chris.”

“I’ll fucking kill him, baby, he’ll never look at you twice, he won’t be able to, I swear it to you.” In what dark, dark place have you crawled into, my love? How do I get there?

You try to keep your voice steady, reasonable. From the corner of your eye, you see Seungmin shaking his head at you, motioning you to step back, away, out from the line of fire. 

“I don’t want that, Chris. I want you to let him go.”

“What?”

“And then I want you to go home.”

In retrospect, you should’ve heeded the bouncer’s advice. This version of Chris does not belong to you, it has nothing to do with feeling or logical thought. It festered in some terror-stricken hole he’d found as a child, and grew into a large open wound, the heart tree of all inhumanity in him. You’d have to carve it out if you’re to ever save him. But to carve it . . . No. You couldn’t. Not you.

Two terrible things happened that night, things that you’d quicker forget than let yourself remember fully.

His calloused hand attacked your neck, wrapping around it with such brutal force, it knocked the air out of you. Immediately, four men jumped to your rescue, circling you like hounds, yelling at Chris, trying to snatch him away from you.

“Stand the fuck down,” he snarled at them, never taking his black eyes off you. “You think I’d actually fucking hurt her? She can take this, can’t you, sweetheart?”

You nod, willing yourself to breathe through your panic, to combine this touch with the one he uses when he makes you feel good, the pain only pleasurable, only flitting, almost enjoyable. He watches you do this, and something flashes in his expression, a recognition, a moment of clarity. It’s gone as soon as it arrives.

“Don’t ever tell me what the fuck to do, you understand? I’m doing this for you, so you can be safe,” he’s never raised his voice at you, and he’s not doing it now, either. You’d take the screaming over this eerie calmness, this polite rage.

This is the monster under your bed, the demon in your closet. You can’t do anything about this, you don’t even know what’s hiding there.

“I didn’t ask for that, Chris,” you manage to say, placing a hand over the one on your throat. No one speaks, no one moves.

“You’ve no fucking idea what’s good for you, do you?”

“Clearly,” you reply, calmly, bitterly.

You see him swallow, and fight with the shadows clouding his judgment. You see the split decision—and the way he shoves you away, the way he refuses to look at you any longer. 

“Have it your way,” he snaps. He’s still so beautiful to you, even like this, the way a severe thunderstorm is, the way gray clouds can cover an entire sunny day in minutes. Not despite, but in spite.  “But this fucker dies today.”

In a split second, your life—an infinite whirlwind, a dizzying dance with no end in sight—it changes, it shifts, because—Chris takes his gun out, a single click, and shoots the man on the floor beside you. All it takes. A blink of an eye. No one seems to get what happened, probably accustomed to the death looming over, but you—you’re covered in blood now, blood that’s not yours, and you’ve never seen someone die before. You don’t even think it registers in your mind, really. You just stare, and stare, and hope that he’ll get up and go to a hospital, because he looks terrible.

“Don’t feel too bad, princess,” Felix whispers somewhere from behind you. “He was a registered sex offender. Boss found out today. Chris had to do it.”

“Chris is not a hit man,” you say mechanically, paralyzed, something else looking through your eyes, inhabiting your body. 

Where are you? Where’d you go?

“No, he’s not,” he agrees. You faintly feel a hand on your shoulder. You don’t react. “But he’s the one that’ll always get the job done. No matter what.”

This is the second thing. Learning that your boyfriend might be more of a collection of ghosts than an actual person. That the blood sprayed on your legs could be anyone’s, could be yours. The thing is, you weren’t truly scared before, but you are now.

And the terrifying truth—you still love him. You love him, you love him, it beats as sure as your heart, it fills you with guilt and despair, because . . . you don’t even really care. You should, surely. This is a horrible situation. But Chris is standing a mere few feet away from you, and he wants nothing to do with you, not when he’s like this, and somehow that’s more severe, that’s—that’s the real tragedy.

“Take care of it,” he cracks his neck, addressing no one in particular. Any of these men would do anything for him, for the club. Honor and loyalty, above all. “Bring me the books. There’s still business.”

Minho and Seungmin get to work, while a third person goes in the back. You don’t know who, you don’t see them, your gaze hasn’t moved from Chris. You whisper his name again, like back in the alley, over and over, and hope for him to turn around, to look and see, to dance with you, to shake you and make you spill. But he doesn’t. You don’t think he ever will again.

You’re one of them now. He didn’t keep you away, he failed, and so now you know.

“And for fuck’s sake, someone take her the hell away from here.”

You kickstart. “No, I won’t go.” You’re here, you’re here, where would I go if you’re here?

He won’t even spare you a second, a moment. He’s walking towards the bar, he’s lighting a cigarette, his hands are still raw and bleeding. The club is closed for the night, you’re no longer needed. Just another witness, just another person in the room. He can make you feel so small, so incredibly small, like you never mattered at all.

Felix steps up and offers to drive you.

“To the house,” Chris instructs firmly, skimming through pages of numbers. “Stay with her until I come back.”

There’s tears stinging your eyes. You fight not to let anyone see them. There’s so much movement around you, it’s making your head spin. Red, fuschia, orange, yellow, blue—the lights never stop turning, they bleed over everything, a dream, a technicolor dream. You lift your hand to your cheek to confirm you’re still real, that you’re still breathing.

You’re sick to your stomach. Not enough. Not enough.

“Why are you sending me away?” You try again, foolishly hoping he’s going to pay you any mind, give you any explanation.

“Come on, (Y/N),” Felix mumbles close to your ear. “You don’t wanna be here for the clean up, trust me.”

Why are you sending me away, why are you sending me away . . . You don’t remember the ride to the club house. You don’t remember much of anything after the click of that gun. It echoes. The man’s eyes roll to the back of his head, a loop of red, fuschia, orange, yellow, blue, redfuschiaorangeyellowblueredfuschiaorangeyellowblue

Someone screams.

ACT FOUR: after.

“I’ve never had a moment’s peace.”

Shirtless, with bandages running down his chest and over his shoulder, he looks like a tortured man returned from war. Burned. Turned inside out.

He was born with a gun in his hand, a ticking time bomb in his head. It’s been counting down since, the brain has festered into a landmine, a battlefield. No. Peace is a foreign word. Reserved only for you.

You listen, you let yourself become the body he loves. You can’t find it in you to be angry at him, not anymore.

“How can I hold a thing like you in my hands and not break it? When you asked me for the truth . . . I couldn’t think of anything, (Y/N), not a single fucking thing,” he wraps a towel around your head, sure, capable hands pulling you up and helping you out of the bathtub. “What I feel for you is poisonous, it’s disturbing. You don’t want that. You shouldn’t want that. It’s not what you deserve.”

“You’re saying all this like you’re saying goodbye,” you whisper, letting him dry your skin, noticing the way he won’t allow himself to linger too long.

You see his mouth curve, his brow furrow. A strange image. It’s almost as if . . .

“I’ve only ever been a monster. A pathetic fucking excuse of a man, and I cannot keep you caged, I can’t keep being selfish with you,” when he’s once again met with your silence, he circles around you, hides behind your back. “You’re incredible, you know that? Other girls would’ve been running for the hills, but not you,” when he lets your hair fall, there’s a horrifying sound, like the earth ripping apart, the heavens falling—

Chris is crying.

Chris is crying and something is very, very wrong. Nothing feels right. He won’t let you turn around. His hands hold you still, his face is buried between your shoulder blades, and he.won’t.let.you.turn.around.

Your eyes sting with the effort it takes not to break down alongside him.

“You just—won’t—fucking—leave. You won’t give up,” he sobs, and then he’s hugging you, he’s hugging you so tight your ribs burn, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, because you never in a thousand years ever pictured this man crying, much less in front of you.

“I’m never giving up,” you reassure him, trying to soothe the boy trying to come out, to escape. “Because I love you. Whatever that means for you, Chris. I love you. I’m not going anywhere.”

He feel him shake his head, his hand wraps around your throat, bodies flush against each other. “I want you. I want you without . . .”

He lets go.

You turn to him, tilting your head, looking for his eyes. He exhales shakily, and moves away, grabbing his lighter from his back pocket, the cigarette from behind his ear. He rubs his face raw, then lights it, tip cherry red and burning fast, and he uses a hand to sit on the tiled floor, one arm resting on his knee. You get in front of him, towel forgotten, numb, completely numb.

“The club?” You say, quietly, so as not to anger the spirits, the demons. For no one else to hear but him. “You want to leave the club?”

He chuckles bitterly, and scratches his brow with a thumb, avoiding your gaze completely. Smoke swirls around you like snakes hunting for prey, an ominous presence. “I can’t even fucking say it. It’s been my whole life, my whole life. This fucking place—I know nothing else.”

“We‘ll figure it out. If you want out, we’ll find a way. Chris, these people look up to you, they trust you—”

“No, the fuck they don’t. That trust goes out the fucking window as soon as I walk. If I leave I’m a fucking traitor. If I leave I’ve betrayed all of them.”

You reach for his empty hand. He pulls away. You can’t ignore the Deja vu of this action. “And what about you?” You press, still. “What about what you’ve given for them, for their laws and rules? Your soul, Chris—”

He laughs, then, a proper laugh. When he does, finally, meet your eye, you see it all. The tortured, the choked, the repressed. It will never be easy. Ever. He might not ever make the decision, he might not ever leave. But dreaming about it . . . He has the right. No matter how unattainable, how unrealistic it seems to him. Why has no one ever shown him how?

“That battered, old thing,” he muses at his cigarette. “Lost it a long time ago, baby. Nothing there.”

“I don’t believe that.”

His smile breaks your heart. It looks so defeated, so devoid of any real happiness. “This is why I can’t let you go,” his fingers reach out and touch your bottom lip, the intention pure, nothing more than a reminder you’re still there, still his, but his gaze speaks of something darker, something you’ll never be able to quit.

“I got charges against me,” he says. “If I take the fall, the club remains. If I don’t, it all goes to hell.”

No. No. “Let it,” you choke out. “Let it! Chris, we can leave. We can go. Let’s just go. Please, I don’t—I can’t, I don’t want to lose—”

The biker puts his hands on your shoulders, shushes you, cradles you like a baby. You comply, a million different things bubbling inside you, ways to get him out, words you never said, everything you didn’t get to do yet. It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair.

“Listen to me,” he continues, cigarette hanging limply from his mouth. “It’s already done. I’ll be gone for a long time, alright, and I need to make sure you’re fucking taken care of. Be a good girl for me, yeah? Listen to me, (Y/N).”

You couldn’t. You were crying too hard, you missed him already. What you two had was nothing but burrowed time, you knew this, and you still mistook it for forever. This was why he didn’t want to get too close. This is why, every time you tried to hold onto him, he slipped away like quicksand. It was all coming down to this.

“Sweetheart, come on, stop crying. You know who I am, yeah? Don’t worry about me, I can take care of myself. Listen to me—I’ve hidden money away. I want you to have it, okay? Use it to get yourself a place, somewhere safe. And don’t fucking go back to that club, I don’t wanna hear you went back, you hear me? Do something for yourself, go to school, I know how fucking smart you are, you’ll fucking blow them away. Hm?” He lifts your chin with his thumb, kisses your forehead, staying there, lingering for one, two, three seconds, before he pulls back and looks into your eyes, willing you to agree, to accept the money, to go on living without him. “I love you, alright? You got all of me, whatever’s still there, it’s all yours. Don’t wait for me. Live.”

“I don’t want to.”

He deflates, sighing heavily. “Don’t make this harder than it is, (Y/N). Do what I say.”

You shake your head, sniffling, wiping at your cheeks. “Not without you. I’m not doing any of that without you. I’ll wait. I’ll wait for you.”

His expression is pleading, his nails digging into your skin like he wants to crawl inside and change your mind. “It’ll be years, baby. Too many. You’ve no fucking idea the shit I’ve done. They got it all, some fucking snitch went and gave it all away. I’m turning myself in tomorrow, I’m not—I’m not fucking asking you to wait. You’re not. Find some lucky boy that’s got nothing to do with this life, and be normal. I never meant to bring you into all of this. You didn’t—didn’t fucking deserve it.”

“Just like that?” you ask, defeated. You could never picture yourself being with anyone else, no one at all.

After Chris, nothing. Alone. Lonely, forever.

He chuckles, crushing you to him, his arms strong, and steady, and home, home, home. “Just like that. I’ll wring his fucking neck out if he’s not good to you, though. I’ll always keep an eye out, always make sure you’re safe.”

“Can I hear it again?” Such a quiet request, barely anything.

He knew exactly what you meant. Your heart broke, fresh tears making their descent on your face. He wiped all of them away. He held you as if, if it was up to him, he’d never, ever let go.

“I love you. I love you so fucking much, sweetheart. You’ll be alright. I got you. I got you.”

You reach to where you know he keeps his gun. His hand flies out to stop you, gaze flaming with fear, with anger. Ash burns your arm, but you don’t even feel it. You’ve seen him use it; undo the safety, press down on the trigger. It was so easy for him. It’ll be easy for you too.

“Shoot me, then,” you bellow. “If you’re not gonna let me do it myself, shoot me! I don’t fucking want this, I’m not losing you, I’m not getting with someone else! What about me? You got this great plan—did you ever stop to think about what I’d want? If I’d be able to move on like how you’re expecting me to? I can’t just switch off my feelings for you, Chris, it doesn’t work like that, okay? I’ve gone through too much, I’ve seen too fucking much to just—to just—”

He wrestles you down, pinning your body on the floor, and getting on top of you, his smooth, cold gun resting on top of your heart. His mouth had curled into a tortured snarl, a bitter smile, his eyes shiny, crazy. You were shaking, he was shaking. You started crying, he started crying. With his thigh against your cunt, you felt his erection, hard and twitching.

“You think I didn’t think of this first?” He said roughly. “Christ, (Y/N), I’m trying to do the right thing here. You think I’ll be able to fucking kill you? I fucking adore you. I’d rather shoot myself in the head first, get it over with. Don’t ever fucking ask that of me again. I’ll be a dead man the second I do such a thing. I’ll be a dead fucking man if I’m not able to have you. Don’t ever fucking do that again.”

“Coward,” you spit in his face, and fight against his death grip. “Sentence us both then. I’ll be dead either way.”

He smashes your lips together. It hurts, it hurts, you wanna say, but you don’t think it’ll ever stop. There’s nothing in his way, everything in yours. In the time it takes to unzip his pants, grab his cock and guide it inside you, you’ve mourned him a thousand times over. To never have this again—him, again. . . You’ll die from missing him. You’ll cry yourself dry. There’s absolutely no way to escape this fate. You’re not ready, you’ll never be. How ridiculous it all seems in the end, faced with losing him.

He makes love to you slow, gentle, like he’s never done before. It’s not so much to get you off, than it is to make you understand. He could kill you both, but he’ll never be able to see you again. His place will be hell, the lowest level, the one he’ll have to keep walking for all eternity, while you’re up with the angels. If he doesn’t, if he hides the gun and never thinks of it again, at least he knows you’re somewhere out there, where there might be a one in a million chance he gets to be with you once more. If you’ll take him. Old and grey. He’ll never see you again as you are underneath him right now.

You stay like that on the floor for a while, with his seed spilling from between your legs, your scent all over him. You kiss him and for the first time, he kisses back. No teeth, no fists.

When he moves you over to the bed, he sleeps for the first time since he was born.

He sleeps and he dreams of you, of little hands reaching out, of being away from all this, far, far away. What he would give.

Everything. Everything.

[lassieposting]

I like to think that once things have settled down post-game, Tav will start addressing Astarion's critically low self-everything issues.

Like, this man's obnoxious, vain exterior is a paper-thin sheet of ice over a bottomless lake of insecurities and negative self-talk, and we see that the whole way through the game. He's been taught to believe that his only value is in his body. He'll bitterly call sex the only thing he's good for. He's shocked if you dump another companion for him, because he sees himself as having nothing to offer but baggage. He knows, in an abstract way, that he's attractive, but he doesn't remember what he looks like.

Perhaps one evening he asks what they see in him, and when they ask what he thinks their answer will be, he's stumped by the question.

And Tav decides it's past time to do something about that, because there is so much about him that is worthy of love.

Consider: Astarion rolling out of bed at like noon, padding naked to the bathroom to wash and style his hair, and catching sight of something tucked into the frame of the mirror. It's a sketch of him, one of Tav's, and beside it, they've scrawled the words you're beautiful. He grins, and traces the charcoal strokes with a fingertip while he brushes his teeth, because that's not a difficult one to believe, and he's touched.

But then he starts finding more little sketches, and more little notes. When he reaches for the book he's been reading, there's one tucked into the page he's dog-eared - a little caricature of himself, curled up in an armchair reading a giant book, captioned you're clever. He snorts a laugh, a little self-deprecating. Loathe as he is to admit it, he's no Gale, and he has brain fog more often than not. But...well, he did graduate law school and pass the bar once upon a time, so technically they're not wrong.

You're brave is resting on his pillow when he comes back from splashing his face in the bathroom one night, still trembling from a nightmare. His eyes well up when he spots it, and when he crawls into open arms and buries his face in Tav's clavicle he mumbles that he doesn't feel very brave at all. That's a hard one to accept, but they will keep telling him.

You care about me... is simply sitting on a dresser one day. Two little drawings with that one; in the first, he's bandaging a cartoonish bump on Tav's head. On the back, though...he recognises that image, Tav tied up and spitting rage at him through the night, lost to their Urges, as he kept watch. In smaller letters, his own words are reflected back at him: ...even when that's an objectively stupid thing to do.

You never gave up is in the medical kit kept under the bed, the one stocked with salves and oils for the bone-deep ache of two hundred years of consistent injuries. Tav will rub his shoulders for him if he asks, he knows that. But, well, two centuries of hiding any sign of weakness makes for a tough habit to break. He touches the reminder gently, as though it's fragile, and after a moment's hesitation, calls them in for help.

And on and on they go, dozens of little notes, a tangible list of things they love about him. Repeated, sometimes, some more than others, as and when he needs to be reminded of them. Often accompanied by little drawings that make him laugh or snort or cry - snapshots at how Tav sees him. His ridiculous bedhead. His unflattering blood-drunk expression, gawking into the middle distance, utterly lost in the sauce. The way his ears will sometimes twitch in his sleep. The Sexy Side-Lean pose he didn't realise he tends to do in doorways. His dramatic readings of appalling erotica.

And gradually, he begins to believe them.

[elexaria]

living with ghoap was nice. two big burly fellas to keep you company, to reach the top shelves in the kitchen for you, to absolutely plough you into the mattress when you couldnt itch your own scratch for once. they were good lads.

but there were countless times where they’d be away for work, so you knew you couldnt be fully dependent on them. they knew that too, so they weren’t exactly going to object to you having fun without them. so long as you were happy and safe, they were content.

but fuck, the men out there are absolutely horrible to deal with. sleazy, there’s just… no ability to have any kind of banter with these things that think only with their cocks.

until you meet kilgöre alexander.

he’s gigantic, his shoulders probably share the same width as mount everest’s base. easily, kilgöre is the tallest man you’ve ever been with. he dwarfs simon in size, which is very telling in itself.

it’s hard to pry away at who kilgöre is as a person. he’s austrian, likes keeping himself to himself. absolutely refuses to tell you what he does for a living, because it’s on a need to know basis. “sounds like something a terrorist would say.” you jokingly coo one night at dinner, smirking as he rolls his foggy blue eyes at your comment. “har har, very funny.” he mockingly says, the corners of his lips twitching ever so slightly.

he’s one of the best things that’s happened to you in a while. he doesn’t know about the particular living arrangement you share with simon and johnny— like he says, it’s on a need to know basis. plus, you haven’t boned either of them since you met this fella. ghoap know what’s up, but they’re not bothered by it. they’re just glad to see you doing well for yourself. “ye have a glow about ye, love.” johnny coos in your ear one day, smirking as he watches you fluster and flounder around the kitchen, trying to make excuses. “it’s the vitamins i’m taking” this and “i’ve quit dairy” that. he knows the truth, simon know its too.

but there’s one thing that makes the attachment to this man absolutely unbearable.

he disappears from time to time.

some days it’s only a couple of days, maybe a couple of weeks at a push. absolutely no contact.

he swears it’s to do with his line of work, that one day he’ll be able to tell you everything. but for now, he asks just for one thing.

“just… wait for me.”

it’s been almost a month with no contact from kilgöre, and it feels like every morning with no text, no nothing, you have a growing pit inside of you that can’t stop gnawing at you, eating you up whole. what the fuck? what could he possibly do for a career that makes it so he goes days without checking his phone? it makes you feel sick to your stomach. what if he’s in a gang or something?

besides, how the fuck can you keep on waiting for someone who you don’t even know is even alive? for all you know, this behemoth of a man has been hog tied and dumped at the bottom of a lake with cinder blocks strapped to his feet. how are you supposed to wait for someone who shows no signs of leaving or coming back?

“that light in yer eyes has dulled.” johnny remarks one evening, a sad smile on his lips. your eyebrows knit together, feigning confusion. “huh? oh, yeah. uh… it’s the gluten intolerance i reckon.” you murmur to yourself, flashing a weak smile to consolidate his inquisitive gaze. “i’m fine, though.”

simon huffs as he leers next to you, skilfully flaying pieces of fish with a pensive look. both you and johnny glance at him, which only makes him grunt in response. you furrow your eyebrows at him, urging him to elaborate on what the pressing issue is.

“we reckon shit’s hit the fan with that new bloke of yours.” simon bluntly replies as he wipes off the chopping board with a damp cloth, hands gently scooping up guts, scales and delicate fish bones to dispose of. you scoff, eyes never leaving the cuts of fish meat that rest on a plate, waiting to be delicately battered and fried up.

“whatev—“

“and i know you, you’ll try and refute the truth that i know what’s going on. that we know what’s going on. so, none of this nonsense, alright? what’s up?”

johnny and simon silently watch you, their simultaneous waiting for any reaction from you making your skin crawl. at first, you scowl and huff. shifting your weight from foot to foot as you become defensive. simon cuts you off again, “none of that bollocks. tell the truth.”

you give in. on bated breath, you explain the whole situation. how kilgöre is the kind of man you had never expected to fall for, how he had managed to steal your attention even while being so elusive and secretive. how you desperately want him to come back to you, like he said he would.

johnny frowns, and simon nods in your direction, wiping his blood stained hands with the damp cloth. “fishy hands.” he murmurs, wiggling his fingers to prove he can’t comfort you with a hug. johnny nods, swiftly making his way around the kitchen island to come give you a warm hug. it’s a solid hug, one you’d never object to having. johnny’s large hands rub circles to your back, his bearded chin resting against your shoulder as he sways gently.

simon stands behind johnny, holding eye contact with you as he continued to carefully clean his hands. he raises his eyebrows in thought, before glancing down at his fingernails as he begins to meticulously clean underneath them to rid his skin of all things fish.

“this… kilgöre bloke. i reckon if he’s the one, he’s worth waitin’ for. but don’t think for a second he should get away with leavin’ you this long without so much as a text, yeah? rip ‘im a new one when he comes back.” he advises, glancing back up at you with a slight smirk when he hears you chuckle, your laugh strained with emotion.

he steps closer, carefully tilting your chin up so you can meet his gaze better. he gently wipes a stray tear from your cheek. “if he’s the man you think he is, he’ll explain everything if you ask him to. and if he does? great. if he doesn’t?” you wince at the idea, frowning.

he sighs, pressing a gentle kiss to your brow.

“then he’s a bloody eejit, as our johnny boy would say.”

[midnightmah07]

Template can be found here.

Background & Personality:

Maisie is sweet, energetic, kind and empathetic, some people would even describe her as naive... Which couldn't be farther from the truth. She's born into a wealthy family that taught her and her sister everything there is to know about music and art, and just like her older sister, she pursued a music career at an early age, being known for her angelic voice. Still, despite her sweet personality and loving persona, Maisie can be very feisty to those who test her patience and wrong her or her loved ones; as she puts it: "my good opinion once lost is lost forever", which makes her susceptible to holding grudges.

Maisie is the youngest of two sisters, having an 11 year age gap with her oldest sister, and she's the aunt of Grace — @4necdote's OC. Grace and her family lost their fortune for a few years due to her sister's music producer taking advantage of them; during this time, Maisie did her best to support and help her family in every way, shape and form, working herself to the bone despite her young age to make sure they were safe and sound. Once her sister fell in love with a good man and got her fortune back, Maisie remembered her childhood dream of falling in love and building her own family, her own romantic fantasies that were once lost and locked deep into her subconscious due to what happened to her family came flooding back into her heart after this. Still, despite this, the damage of what happened to her sister made Maisie more wary of people in general, making her too difficult to please and really picky when it comes to her romantic partners, being scared of opening her heart to most people that weren't her family.

Fun facts: Maisie is a jazz singer, and despite being well-known, she's less famous than her older sister, who's an opera singer; Maisie is often mistaken for being much younger than she actually is, and it's one of her insecurities; Maisie has only had 1 boyfriend despite her age, due to her unrealistic standards, and her first kiss was awful and she prefers to not talk about it please; she's albino

Basic info:

Height: 160cm

Age: 25

Nicknames: Mai (by friends and family), Whiskers and Ribbons (by Fellow)

Birthday: December 11th

Dominant hand: left

Favorite food: sole meunière

Occupation: singer

Hobbies: playing the piano, painting

Homeland: Shaftlands

Unique Magic: [to be added]

Relationships:

Grace ( @4necdote's OC): Maisie is Grace's aunt, but due to their small age gap, Maisie and Grace feel more like two sisters. They're very fond of each other, especially because of the period of time where Maisie had to take care of her family; Grace is often referred to as Maisie's favorite nephew, and Grace is always the one to receive Maisie's clothes when she needs to get rid of her old ones. Maisie usually tries to give Grace advice, and despite her lack of experience, she's usually wonderful at helping Grace with her romantic life, helping her realize her feelings towards Floyd once she complained about the boy to her aunt.

♡ Fellow Honest: because I still need to know more about Fellow due to not knowing the full story of Playful Land, I can't go into detail about their story, however! Fellow and Maisie are exes, him being the only boyfriend she's ever had. His playful demeanor and charming persona managed to sweep her off her feet, and Fellow genuinely fell for Maisie as well... But due to issues relating to Fellow's life, Fellow betrayed her trust and they broke up, but both of them still have strong feelings towards each other.

Gidel: Maisie had, and still has, a soft spot towards Gidel. She sees him as a sweet and wonderful boy, and often encourages him to seek his dreams and grow as a person. Gidel clings to her and views her as an older sister, and because of this he was deeply hurt once they had to part ways due to Fellow and Maisie's breakup.

Vil Schoenheit: after learning he's Grace's housewarden, Maisie keeps an eye out for him in order to know if he treats her nephew well, and upon learning about his personality and how he treats others, Maisie is very pleased with him, even taking an interest in his work and complimenting his acting and singing in the times she manages to see him.

Floyd Leech: Maisie finds Floyd... Interesting, to say the least. Despite this, she can see how much he cares for and loves her nephew, and because of that she gives him his full support, often helping him out and making ways for them to spend time together, much to Grace's dismay.

Sam: Maisie and Sam are childhood friends. They went to school around the same time, and Maisie was a victim of many of Sam's tricks and schemes — although they were all made with light hearted intentions. Although they went to different schools, they saw each other rather frequently and keep in touch even today, Sam sometimes attending her shows and Maisie making sure to advertise his business whenever she can.

Crewel: Maisie met him when she grew up through Sam, and they hit it off right from the get go. They usually talk about fashion together and often shop together when they want to catch up, and at some point, Crewel tried making attempts to flirt with her. Unfortunately, due to still having feelings towards Fellow, Maisie wasn't able to reciprocate, so their relationship is purely platonic, however Crewel wouldn't mind taking her on a date if she ever decided to give him the opportunity.

Character reference:

[mochinomnoms]

*reads the octa kinks post*

Omg. Mating season Azul got me in his horny tentacle grip.

Like omg. Just.. just... *squeals* the things I would let that man do to me.

Just imagine mating season comes and Azul is just so damn needy. He's taking you wherever and whenever he can. On his desk, over his desk, against his door, in the shower, in the tub. You find out how good his strength actually is when he's got you bent like a pretzel, fingers digging into your hips as he's got you hoisted up and working you over. If only he had this much stamina in his PE class. But you're just a way more fascinating topic I suppose.

Praise him, praise him and tell him how amazing he's making you feel. How much you love when he works his hands on you. He'll have you like putty as he prepared you. He loves it, he also loves it when you're so blissed out that all you can do is moan for him. Call his name. Do it.

Let's not forget he still actually has to attend classes so this mad lad is horny gripping through them. Maybe he gets so wound up that he sneaks you off to a random classroom for a quickie. Has you bent over a desk or you give him a blow job to help. Don't worry. The man knows a good cleanup spell(you can't tell me he doesn't) he's not so cruel to send you off reeking of sex. Although.... Maybe he enjoys sending you off with his scent lingering on your skin. Sends you off with a pretty scarf wrapped around your neck that has his cologne. What a lovely little reminder to the others that you're taken, and maybe it helps hide any little incriminating marks(if you're into that)

That's not even touching on his mer form yet. He has you in a shallow pool, or maybe he's given you a nice long air breathing potion because now you're in a small cove nestled somewhere safe from prying eyes. Maybe it's nice and dark and the only thing you can see is the pale blue of Azul's eyes or maybe you watch as the bioluminescent patterns dance along his skin(I love me bioluminescent octatrio) Don't worry, you've got eight strong limbs working you over, each one truly seems to have a mind of their own as they work you over. This man, he's leaning back and just seems to be enjoying the show until you're begging him to fuck you properly. Who is he to deny your wish, he's such a benevolent mate, now isn't he?

orz Azul just gimme one chance pls I BEG!

Azul's never had good stamina, in the sea or out, and it shows when you're intimate with him. It's why he focuses in on making you come via his hands and mouth so much before actually getting to the main event. Poor Azulito only has one orgasm in him before he tires out, but it's a very yummy one when he's with you, and by the time he's actually fucking you, your bones are all jelly, and you're blissed out.

It's a very pleasant surprise when his mating season first comes around after you two get together. When he was single, Azul would get a bit feverish, hot and bothered, and more irritable than normal. Usually, he'd just manage with some potions and rest, but once he's gotten a mate, it's like a switch flipped in his brain.

Instead of being mildly inconvenienced, his entire body is heated and sensitive to touch, yours specifically. It's as if he's taken a high dosage of an aphrodisiac and the only cure is your gummy insides. If you two never had quickies before, you sure as hell do now. He's using you over and over on any surface in his room, office, even in a nearby empty classroom if the need to breed (ha) hits. It's enough of an issue that you both get a stern talking to by the teachers, who are recommending that you two take a rest of his mating season off as to not distract the other studies. They'll make sure to have someone bring your work over, just please go back to Azul's dorm, the beastmen and fae students are starting to complain about you two and the scent of sex.

Once he's got you in the water after that, you're getting bred over and over again and again until he's positive his seed is taken (even if you can't get pregnant). So, uh, hope you have good stamina at least, or else you're gonna have a tough time.

[fuxuannie]

Unrelated to any of the Kenji thirst I keep thinking to the moment where Kenji is real close to losing his shit because someone made the 'Where's the Japanese Version of the guy' in regards to him and like fuck it hit me hard. I'm mixed like to the point where people can't pin my ethnicity by looking at me and constantly being told I'm not x or y enough to be a member of a community by all rights I do belong to I just I really empathized with him in that moment. I'd love to see some head cannons on how he feels and deals with the "Not Japanese enough" allegations, how he feels about being back in his home country after being in America for so long just overall how he adjusts and navigates through that

❥﹒kenji sato x gender neutral reader

✦. synopsis — request (thank you so much !!)

✦. love mail — requester wherever you may be, you are loved and it’s heartbreaking you relate to such :( you and me both, but thank you for such a heart touching req 😞🫰.

✦. tags — NO SPOILERS, not super x reader focused but elements are there, based on writer’s own experiences, angst-ish (not sure?), mentions of discrimination

Adjusting to life back in Japan was.. no easy feat, really. It had been so long since he was home, it no longer felt right to call it that. He felt out of place in his own skin. No one could tell, after all – it was his charm. But after every game, after every interview, he goes home and feels more disappointed in himself with each day. His own language, it feels foreign on his tongue. Each word he says feels wrong. You’ll be there to reassure him that it’s been some time, of course he won’t be perfect. But that’s the issue; he’s not perfect. He should be. That’s what people expect of him.

Criticism came with the lifestyle, it was a guarantee. But for it to come from his own people? Ouch. It was bad enough that back in America, he was made fun of for his bare-bone English, now back in Japan it’s his barely coherent Japanese. He feels like wherever he goes, he has to feign confidence to not break down. He puts on those damn shades to hide the way his eyes start to tear up when things get too much. Sure, he had gone through shit. But how much can one man take till he starts to break? Kenji can tell you, it’s not a lot. It’s been years and he’s just had to act like it doesn’t affect him.

And if not for the way he speaks, of course they go for how he looks. Now Kenji will admit, he IS a confident man. He loves himself and his image, but he isn’t immune to insecurity, no one is. Your heart breaks whenever he cries in your arms, resting on top of you as he sobs into your chest. You try to soothe his worries, kissing each part of him that he feels insecure about, which ends up just being his whole face. It’s a harrowing sight to see. You just wished you could get rid of all his problems, because for one man to bear it all? It wasn’t fair for his poor soul.

Sometimes you’ll wake up to him watching his old games, he’ll ask you what’s wrong, but you don’t notice. Instead, you see little him and how he smiled. It confused you, the tape wasn’t even playing – it was just paused there. He had that typical smile that most kids had, full of teeth and eyes squinted because of how wide their smile was. You chuckle, he was so cute. You then look back at him, and you try to understand. “I-” He’ll start, running a hand through his hair. “I just.. I missed that smile. The people back in America.. they made fun of me so-” You ran into his arms, engulfing him in a hug that made him feel so warm and fuzzy. And he doesn’t realise it, but that moment brings back that smile. He’s just so happy with you he can’t help it.

I think that, all and all, he’s just had to become desensitised to everything. He just shuts down whenever someone says something about how he doesn’t fit in. You’ll defend him, but he tells you not to. It’s a waste of breath. You want to argue that it’s not, that he deserves to be defended, but his defeated look wins you over. He knows there’s no real way to stop them, so he’d rather focus on his practices or making you feel happy. Those are things that matter to him; not something as temporary as his appearance or mannerisms of speech. He’s accepted that, and his priority is your happiness and his. :)

For more lighthearted headcanons, if you were Japanese, you'd offer to help Kenji refresh on writing his Kanji and overall speaking, which he is more than happy to accept. Another case, if you aren't Japanese; he'll ask if you want to learn with him. He's overjoyed if you accept, it brings a positive association and motivation to relearn his language. It wasn't to just please people.

I imagine Ami had become a good friend to you and Kenji, so she offers to demonstrate all the mannerisms Kenji has perhaps forgotten (and you did too/want to learn as well) to help. You both appreciate her helpful hand, and treat her to good restaurants for dinner as thanks. :)

[crushmeeren]

♡ Master List Link

➳ Warnings; Mentions of injuries, Cursing, Kissing, Marijuana Use, Vaginal Sex, Dirty Talk, Squirting, Fem Reader

➳ Or: You just want to spend one more easy night with Dabi before the entirety of Japan goes to hell.

♡ Note; this is a completely re-edited, revised, reworked version of my previous Dabi/Reader — I deleted the previous one.

♡ Touya / Fem Reader

It’s almost funny, you think, as you lean against the wall of the Leagues newest hideout. The reason you were convinced to join the A team in the first place—to go a long with Shigaraki’s convoluted plans.

It wasn’t Stain. Hell, it wasn’t even Shigaraki himself. It sure as fuck wasn’t All for One.

No, it was the scarred, absolutely deranged, blue eyed psycho that has daddy issues. The man who creates flames that burn over 2500 degrees celsius at their hottest, higher than Endeavors. The bastard.

To be fair, you didn’t know he had daddy issues when you saw him on TV for the first time. Yet, you saw the emotion in his eyes. Rage.

It flared, crackling brightly—hotter than the flames he produces himself.

It forced something to melt and seep into your bones, making your skin feel too tight, itchy, in an all too familiar way. You recognized another emotion on his face, one you were well acquainted with. Revenge.

You stopped at nothing to seek him out after that. Inevitably, you found him.

Now here you are, watching Dabi make, what equates to, a self-introduction video.

You’ve heard the story from him multiple times, you’ve seen him make the video over and over again. He’s shared his past and you’ve shared yours. You know people say Dabi may not feel much, hell even he says that. They say he’s heartless, cold, insane.

And—he is, but he’s also much more than that to you.

He’s kind to you, in his own twisted way, but he loves you, as much as he’s able to.

Which compared to “normal people” is actually quite a lot. Some would place him on the level of obsessed, unhealthy.

Although, who are you to judge? You act the exact same way towards him. Both of you would incinerate the world for each other, literally.

You also know he wants this video to be his own version of Dantes Inferno, about his journey navigating through hell since he was a kid.

You’ve had many conversations with Dabi about how much of a toll this takes on him. As if he’s weighted down by concrete tied to his ankles. Usually he gets so worked up that smoke ends up seeping through the seams of his staples by the end of it.

Nevertheless, he’s releasing the video tomorrow—whether it’s time for Shiagaraki to wake the hell up or not. No matter what, it’s going to rock the hero society. It’ll crumble the facade they have worked so hard to maintain. You’re lucky enough to know who he really is, the rest of the league, and the world, doesn’t. Yet.

You’re here for support, to make sure he actually gets the video fucking done, before you’re heading off for the day. Doing some sort of asinine errand for the Doc to help keep Shigaraki’s ass alive while he soaks in that vat.

You already decided that later tonight, you’re going make sure Dabi remembers he’s got you to come home too. No matter what happens after the world sees behind the veil.

After some time, you’re still leaning against the wall on the side of the room. Letting little flames ignite from your fingertips, just playing around, having one flame dance from finger to finger.

It’s another thing that had attracted you to Dabi. Even though flame quirks are a dime a dozen, and his flames burn hotter, it made you feel like you were similar, in a way.

Noticing that he’s stopped talking you look up, putting out the flame with a wave of your hand. You watch him walk to the camera to turn it off.

He was shirtless for the video. It shows off how lean he is, but it also shows all the burn scars that cross his chest and torso, up his neck and under his eyes. His hair is white right now and the staples holding him together shine under the light from overhead.

For a beat you remember how cool they feel pressing against your skin when Dabi pins you face down on the bed.

Your body flushes, warmth churning in your belly.

Being in love with a man like Dabi means he takes up most of the space in your brain, running wildly through your thoughts constantly.

To add on it’s not just Dabi you love, it’s Touya too.

You’re desperately aware of the fact that you’re not doing a very decent job of hiding the way your eyes trail his body when he speaks up. His smooth, smoky voice rumbling from his chest.

“You know, it’s rude to stare baby,” Dabi murmurs, inclining his head slightly to look at you. His gaze is sharp but his lips are pulled into a lazy catlike grin.

Embarrassment shoots through you, burrowing into your cheeks. A swarm of butterflies ravages you.

Using your hands, you set them behind you and you push off the wall, trying to form a response. Nobody else but Dabi makes you act like you’ve swallowed your tongue whole.

“Maybe I just like what I see,” you tease, trying to ignore the obvious flush of your chest and neck. Dabi turns to face you as you walk up to him.

You can’t get over the way he looms over you, forcing you to crane your neck to look up at him. The grin never leaves his face. He tugs playfully at a lock of hair that had fallen from your bun, making it seem as if you’ve swallowed cotton balls.

“Oh? You’re one to talk. I could fuck you where you stand and you’d let me,” he flirts, looking oh so casual the whole time.

Dabi twirls the same strand of hair around his finger tightly, before letting it go.

The man radiates fucking heat and it’s a bit like standing too close to a bonfire. It toes the line of too hot, as if your skin would start to melt if you got too close.

Your eyes flutter shut from the familiar warmth, and you taking a deep, steadying breath — willing away the lust that threatens to turn your insides to ash.

You desperately try to remember that now is not the time to let Dabi fuck you silly.

You reluctantly take a step back, only now realizing how close the two of you had gotten. Later, you remind yourself, trying to cool down.

Dabi pushes out his lower lip, pretending to pout.

“Dabi, c’mon, you know I’ve got to go soon. I just wanted to make sure you got this finished today,” you say with hesitation.

Dabi rolls his eyes, no doubt irritated they have you doing bullshit errands. You get it, you feel the same, but you know it’s just less of a hassle to get it done.

It’s not like you don’t want Shigaraki to wake up soon. The crazy, itchy fucker has grown on you.

Besides, you want to get the plan moving and all. Dabi knows this, yet it still pisses him off. He waves a hand dismissively, before turning back to the camera.

“Whatever, go on then,” he bites coldly. Your lips press into a line, the sting of hurt pulsing in your chest briefly.

You shove your hands in your pockets and turn to leave without saying much else. You’re not willing to get into it with him right now, the video has clearly already got him riled up.

Before you can take a step, a blistering palm grabs your forearm, turning you back around. You raise an eyebrow as you meet his intense gaze.

“Yes?” you bite back. Dabi stares down at you, hand trailing down to grip your wrist, wrapping his fingers around as a bracelet. His expression stays sharp, blue eyes piercing.

“Just come back to me tonight, okay?” Dabi demands, an underlying note of concern lacing his tone.

You can’t hold back the smile that pulls at your lips, previous hurt washed away by your adoration for the deranged man in front of you. You nod.

“I will Touya,” you whisper softly.

You tend not to use his real name often, only when you need him to know you’re serious.

It makes his eye twitch, his stomach more often than not twisting in fury when he hears it.

Not with you though. The way his name falls from your lips—he’d be remiss if he didn’t admit it soothes the open wound it’s left behind.

Without another word, Dabi bends down, brushing a kiss over your cheek, letting your wrist go. Your skin tingles where his lips were, the rough texture of his lower one always tickles. You smile softly.

Swiftly you press a kiss to the corner of his mouth in return.

“Love you too, dickhead!” You call out playfully, letting the door swing shut behind you. Dabi scoffs watching you go, but he wears, a small, loving smile at your jab.

He already wishes for the night. As long as can be with you again.

You’re covered in soot and ashes. Smelling like a fucking bonfire gone wrong. The flesh of your hands is singed, stinging, and you curse internally when you curl them into fists.

Generally, it happens when you overuse your quirk. The skin sizzles, steam rising from the reddened flesh. You shake your hands out as you walk, thanking God that it looks worse than it is. It’ll heal relatively quickly.

You’ve managed to procure only a couple bruises though, so you count yourself even luckier. You know Dabi will be fucking pissed either way.

You always have to talk him down from eviscerating the Doc when you wind up coming home banged up from one of his errands.

To top it off, it’s way later than when you normally return from these idiotic missions. It’s well past midnight and you’re sure Dabi is close to committing arson.

The job was a waste of your time. Granted, you admit you may have been a little distracted. You couldn’t stop thinking about the night that lay ahead of you and Dabi.

It’s hard to burn down that many buildings, discreetly, when you’re not focused 100%. You almost got caught at the last building.

Hence the new dark purple splotches covering your left bicep. They throb slightly when you accidentally brush your fingers over them. It’s a miracle you made it out, but you’re not telling Dabi that.

Walking into the front door of the, more or less mansion that is the hideout, you notice it’s quiet in the living room.

None of the usuals that hang out are down here. You look around quickly, thinking maybe you’d catch a glance of Dabi. You scowl when you don’t see his spiky white hair anywhere. You swiped something on the way home, an item that will help the two of you relax. It sits heavy in your back pocket.

You desperately want the two of you to enjoy the night before the world explodes into chaos tomorrow.

You slip your hand into your pocket, just to make sure it’s still there. Your finger tips trace the pre-rolled joints you snagged. You smile coyly to yourself, feeling your heart beat harshly against your rib cage.

A pleasant shiver rolls down your spine as you recall the last time you and Dabi had sex higher than a kite.

Smoking weed isn’t necessarily something you and Dabi do often, but when you get the chance you certainly take advantage of it.

How could you say no? Your body feels relaxed and warm, like your joints are made of butter. The pleasure is always dialed to a 10.

You know Dabi fucking loves it, the one chance he gets to truly relax. You make your way to the stairs as you chew on your bottom lip, mulling over your thoughts.

You’re hoping that once Dabi sees you’re okay, and that you have joints, he won’t be too tempted to set the mansion on fire.

You walk swiftly to your room. You pass by Mr. Compress on the way, the two of you wave in greeting. The sound of your combat boots echo on the wooden floor as you round the corner, stopping at your door.

The door is closed but that’s not unusual. Eagerly, you turn the handle and push open the door. It’s pitch black inside. That…is odd actually. Your grin quickly fades as you step inside, curious, you flip on the low light to the room.

Dabi’s not here. You feel an unwarranted flash of irritation at the realization.

As cliche as it sounds, recently you’ve been finding him playing some sort of game on his desk top computer. You’re not sure he’s ever played one before now and he seems to thoroughly enjoy it. Your chest warms as you think about him getting to experience some sort of normalcy.

However, he’s not at the desk. He’s not anywhere in your room. You shut the door behind you and walk in further. Shoving the feeling of annoyance down your throat, you remind yourself that the villain has got to be somewhere around the hideout.

Hoping he’ll pop up soon you decide it’s best to take a shower. To wash off the layer of disgusting ash you’re covered in.

Setting the joints on your dresser, you strip your nasty clothes off and throw them to the side. You grab one of Dabi’s shirts, one with a skull on it and nothing else before making your way into the en-suite bathroom.

As you stand under the spray of the scalding water, it feels unbelievable. The water acting as a much needed massage for your sore muscles.

You scrub yourself clean, hissing as the soap causes a burning sensation in your hands. You examine the newly pink, sensitive skin of your palms and flex your sore fingers.

The curtain suddenly rips open halfway and you scream loudly, arms flailing wildly. Your head whips to the side, heart in your throat as you see a smug looking Dabi. You place a hand on your chest, pulse thundering.

“You fucking jack ass! You scared the shit out of me! Where the hell have you been?” you shout, angrily flinging water at his face.

Dabi laughs as he brings his hand up in surrender, covering his face from your retaliation. You let out a frustrated noise, quickly turning the water off to face him. You push roughly at his chest, wetting his shirt and he grips the shower curtain with one hand for balance. He’s still fucking laughing.

“I got restless waiting for you. I was with Spinner, who wouldn’t stop yapping about some new video game. I saw Compress and he told me he saw you on your way up. I wanted to fuck with you.” He grins wolfishly, pretending to wipe a fake tear of amusement from his eye. The staples near the corner of his mouth tug at his skin.

You scowl, glaring at him playfully.

“You’re the biggest dick I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting, ya know that?” you chastise him, unable to stop yourself from grinning widely at his relaxed demeanor.

Truthfully, you know nobody else sees this playful side of Dabi. The fact that you’re privy to it, it’s like knowing the world’s greatest secret. You want to put it in a box and keep it safe forever.

“Is that right? And yet, you’re the one who continues to stay with me, princess. I’ve just got you that cock drunk for me, don’t I sweetheart?” You blush violently at his teasing, but there’s absolutely no denying it.

Dabi smirks, taking the chance to let his gaze lazily trail up and down your wet, naked body. Slowly appreciating your form, and biting the tip of his tongue.

You wiggle your eyebrows playfully, popping your hip out, placing your hand there. It pulls an amused laugh from him and he winks at you. The sound of it sets your nerves alight.

Suddenly, you feel Dabi go stock still. The air raises a few degrees as his expression distorts into something feral, his happy mood vanishing.

Your stomach knots up and you shift your weight from foot to foot. You know he’s found the new, rather large, bruises peppering your left bicep. Delicately, he trails his fingers over them with his free hand. You wince.

The sickening scent of burning plastic starts to flood your nose. You glance over, panicking slightly when you see Dabi’s melting the shower curtain in a death grip.

“Touya!” You gasp. “I’m okay, really, I’m fine. Please, look at me baby,” you soothe, gripping his wrist to try and yank him free, but he doesn’t loosen his hold. You place your free hand on his cheek, forcing his manic gaze to meet yours. “It was my fault, I wasn’t paying attention,” you continue in a gentle voice, running your thumb over the scarred flesh under his left eye.

His snowy white eyebrows pinch together, and he lets out a pained sound, hesitantly letting go of the curtain. You swiftly take the opportunity to lace your fingers with his.

You take a peak at the curtain again, noticing a hand print has been permanently melted into it. Touya tugs on your hand harshly, asking for your attention.

He stares intensely at your face, pupils tracking back and forth rapidly, looking wild. When he speaks, it’s as if he’d swallowed a handful of gravel.

“Those goddamn idiots!” He snarls. “Sending you out, letting you get fucked up. If I fucking see that Doc again before Shigaraki wakes up, I’m incinerating him,” he manages to get out through clenched teeth. He’s furious, tone low and menacing.

It definitely does not turn you on.

Touya tangles his fingers through the wet hair at the nape of your neck, squeezing painfully. Your breath catches, scalp tingling.

A torrent of warmth rushes through you, pussy clenching eagerly around air.

It never fails to turn your brain to mush when he’s like this. Protective, possessive. It makes syrupy heat drip down your spine.

You shiver, not just from the chill of being naked, when you realize you’re still dripping wet. Unfortunately, you need a towel.

“I know Touya,” You laugh shakily , wanting to redirect his anger. “ I won’t stop you, promise. Let’s not allow those dumbasses to ruin our night, okay?” You squeeze his hand reassuringly. “I brought a surprise for us to share! So can you be a good boyfriend and please hand me a towel?” You plead, looking at him through your lashes.

Touya doesn’t move for a moment, narrowing his eyes slightly as considers your words, before his expression mellows out. He sighs heavily.

Touya releases his grip on your hair, trailing his rough fingers over your jaw and patting your cheek twice softly. He frees your other hand and turns to grab a towel from the cabinet.

You lift up your arms, very relieved, and wiggle your fingers happily as you wait. Touya sweetly wraps the cloth around your back and crosses it over your chest, tucking it into itself so it stays in place. You beam at him, letting your arms fall to hold it in place.

“Fine. You’ve convinced me not to commit murder tonight. Show me the surprise,” Touya concedes, catlike grin settling into his expression once again. You breathe another sigh of relief, stepping out of the shower. You balance with a hand on his arm.

“I got us joints! I figured some good weed would help us relax and,” you trail your finger over his jaw, biting your lip coyly. You lean in, whispering sensually to him. “I was hoping we could have some fun later, if you know what I mean.”

Standing up straight, you smile smugly, wrapping the towel tighter around yourself, watching his reaction. His head tilts back in delighted laughter.

“That’s the best idea you could’ve had. Let’s go get high out of our minds baby, and then I’ll fuck you into the mattress,” he purrs, grabbing the shirt you left to change into and tugging you along out of the bathroom.

You watch his lean frame from behind, admiring him as he walks. Your man is stupid hot, and you don’t just mean literally.

Once you’re near the bed the two of you release each other. He hands you your shirt and you let your towel unwind, tossing it to the side.

Touya’s hand comes out of nowhere to roughly smack your bare ass. The pain flares, making you yelp.

“Touya!” You scold. “Fuck off for a second will you?” you joke. “Let me at least put my shirt on.” You slip the clothing over your head as you speak, gathering your wet hair into a braid.

Touya snorts. You look at him with a raised brow as he’s taking his own clothes off. Your eyes linger for a moment on the V shape that disappears into his underwear. He winks at you in return when he catches your stare, but you just roll your eyes.

“Why are you even putting clothes on? You know I’m just going to get you naked later,” Touya complains as he crawls onto your shared bed. He leans his back against the headboard. Touya looks at you expectantly, patting the spot next to him as he shoves his long, pale legs under the blanket.

“Yes I know, but I still get cold sometimes, plus I like this shirt, it’s soft,” you reply, picking up the joints from your dresser, turning the overhead light off, and shimmying up the bed to him.

You make it a point to sit so your thigh and arm are squished against his as you recline next him. You use a pillow to support your lower back.

“You know I can keep you just as warm baby,” Touya coos, pulling up the soft fuzzy blanket that covers your bed so you can get your own legs underneath. He lets it rest at your waist.

Touya gently warms the space beneath and you swallow a moan. It feels amazing. Turning your head to look at him, you smile lazily. He wiggles his eyebrows as you hold up a joint to him, urging him to light it.

“I know, and later on you’re gonna make me sweat,” you tease, watching as he smirks.

He doesn’t even pay attention as he uses his finger to light the joint. A little blue flame that instantly eats the paper, setting it alight.

You kiss his cheek in thanks, selfishly taking the first drag. Fuck, it tastes like heaven. A twisted version of lemon flavor bursts across your tongue. It’s sweet, but also bitter.

You let the smoke swirl in your lungs while you hold your breath. Letting it out in a long exhale, the smoke ghosts across Touya’s face. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, groaning as he breathes out.

After a joint and a half in, you’re feeling the perfect level of high. You’re leaning your head on Touya’s shoulder, studying your fingertips.

You’re something akin to the warm butter that melts on top of pancakes. Your head feels fuzzy and you know Touya is in the clouds.

”Baby,” Touya softly calls for you, smooth like whiskey. His honeyed voice sends a shiver down your spine. Your head feels heavy when you lift it, looking at him with a dopey grin.

“Hmm?” you try to ask. Managing to giggle in response. He tilts his head down towards you. He’s wearing a matching lazy grin, his eyes half-lidded.

“Let me shot gun that pretty mouth,” he murmurs, taking the last large inhale from the joint. He holds his breath and puts out the joint on his palm, laying the roach on the bedside table.

You nod happily, stomach unbearably warm as you lean towards him. You let your mouth fall open obediently.

Touya looks sly, meeting you halfway. His different textured lips pressing to yours easily, slightly opened as he slowly pushes the smoke out of his lungs and into your mouth.

Your eyes flutter closed as the tendrils of smoke roll into your mouth. It makes you feel a bit feverish and everything feels like it’s rolling in slow motion.

You inhale equally as slow, taking your time, pulling it into your lungs. It makes you feel dizzy. You hold it for a moment, until your chest starts to burn and then you break from the kiss.

Turning your head minutely, you let it all out in one breath. Your tongue slips out to lick your lower lip, the aftertaste from the joint making your mouth water.

You slide your gaze to Touya’s. He brings his hand up, letting his fingers rest on your jaw as he runs a thumb over the lip you just licked. His eyes burn with a low heat, like embers.

“Feeling high princess?” he whispers, leaning a bit closer, lips only a couple centimeters from yours. He’s gentle, holding your jaw, fingers pressing in on both sides now.

Your eyes are lidded and it feels like his rich voice physically melts through your skin, into your veins. You admire how pretty his face is, feeling your pussy throb. You bite your lip and nod, tickling a hand over his collarbone. He shivers.

“So high,” you giggle and whisper your next sentence, as if you’re telling him a secret. “Will you fuck me now Touya?”

Touya’s fingers twitch before they slide down to wrap around your throat, squeezing lightly. The staples on his wrist scratch at your neck. He’s studying your face, letting his lips pull into a wicked grin as he inches forward, brushing his mouth against yours.

“With pleasure baby girl,” he rumbles, pressing the words into your lips. You moan into his mouth, kissing him slowly over and over.

You’re just starting to lick into his mouth when he puts pressure on your windpipe and you get the message, breaking the kiss with a whine.

He laughs softly as he releases your neck and you shift until you’re lying down flat on the bed, head resting on the pillow.

The change in position makes the room spin and you blink your eyes slowly. You’ve planted your feet on the bed, letting your legs fall open. Moving around makes your shirt rise up to your hips, slick pussy on display for Touya.

You’re vaguely aware of how wet you already are, and it’s too hot in the room, your face heats again and sweat trails down your temple.

The only light in the room is from the TV you had turned on absently. Yet, you can still see Touya’s chest. He has his own light sheen of sweat covering his skin, nipples stiff and perky.

The white haired man maneuvers to get in between your thighs. He sits back on his calves, palms resting on the tops of your knees as he takes a look at your soft pussy.

The sight makes his cock ache, straining to be free from his briefs. He feels his tip positively leaking, sticking to the soft material.

“C‘mere Touya,” you whine softly, reaching your arms out for him. His expression is relaxed, loving as he bends to your will, resting his forearms on either side of your head.

You wind your arms around his neck, pulling him down into another kiss. Your lips slide together eagerly, the heat between you blazing.

His bottom lip is rough but the texture makes you moan every time. He easily slips his tongue inside your mouth, rolling them together, and you bite the delicate muscle briefly.

A husky moan pushes past his lips, causing him to break the kiss.

“Goddammit baby, I wanna fuck you so bad,” he groans, voice wrecked as he sucks dark marks in a line up your neck, gripping the hem of your shirt.

“Please,” you beg, the word sticking to the roof of your mouth. Touya doesn’t hesitate, sitting back momentarily to free you of your shirt, throwing it somewhere behind him.

The air brings a slight chill, making your nipples harden. Goosebumps erupt along your chest and you whine. Touya rests his hands on your soft belly, dick jumping, drooling as he takes in your naked body. His large, warm palms cover most of the skin there, fingers splayed on your ribs.

His eyes are red and glossy as they trail over your tits, noticing your nipples are pretty little pebbles. God, he’s so hard he could cut diamonds.

He quickly shoves his underwear off, the urge to be naked swallowing him whole. His cock bobs free as it catches on the waistband of his briefs. You watch, catching sight of the curly white hair resting just above the base.

He settles again between your legs, gripping his shaft and squeezing briefly for some relief. His own touch feels electric and he moans through his teeth. He knows you’ll feel a thousand times better than his hand.

He’s quick to swipe his thumb between your pussy lips, parting them as he drags it up to your clit, starting to massage slow circles there.

You choke on an inhale, head feeling heavy. Your limbs feel like jello, warmth flowing through you. You hum, reaching out to wrap a hand around the silky smooth skin of his shaft. He lets out a broken moan when you pump his cock, letting his foreskin pull back.

“Touya, c’mon, pretty please? Don’t wanna wait,” you say with breathy sigh. You keep stroking his cock, twisting your wrist upwards and he groans again, sounding breathless.

“You don’t have to ask me twice baby, you know how much I love fucking you,” he purrs, looking exactly like the Cheshire Cat.

He places a hand on each of your inner thighs, spreading you open a little more. You tilt your hips up a little, so you can guide his thick cock inside of you. You tease yourself, sliding his tip over your swollen clit. You let out a low curse as it sends electricity up your spine.

A short whine slips through Touya’s lips as the head of his cock presses in smoothly. Removing your hand, you give him the reigns to do the rest as he stretches your pussy completely. You tilt your head back on the pillow as you start clenching around him.

“Oh,” you say as if you’ve been sucker punched. “Touya, you feel so good!” you cry out, thoughts disjointed. You tremble at the overwhelming pleasure, white knuckling the pillow under you.

You’re sure you could cum just from the stretch of his cock alone, your sensitivity at an all time high. You chance a look at your boyfriend, panting.

His eyebrows are scrunched and he’s gritting his teeth, eyes locked on where he’s disappeared inside you. Warm pussy wrapped around him perfectly.

“Shit,” he curses lowly. “You’re so fucking tight,” he laughs incredulously rocking his hips shallowly.

His own mind is fuzzy, body high so intense he could sob. You lay there and take it beautifully as he starts to fuck you for real, slow and deep.

Your limbs are like lead, and you’ve all but become one with the mattress, the pleasure all you can focus on. The sound of your skin smacking together makes your ears burn. You’re watching the way his fingers grip your thighs, the way the muscles in his lower abdomen flex with every thrust.

“You’re so fucking hot Touya, God - I can’t,” you all but sob. You can’t focus on anything else but the way his cock drags in and out of your pussy. Touya hums softly and leans forward, bracing his hands on the bed, caging you between. You look up at him through your lashes.

“What do you want baby? Hmm? Tell me,” he pants, voice smoldering. Your entire body flushes even hotter. Quirk raising up just below your skin and you keep your hands from the sheets for fear of turning them to ash.

Letting out a low moan, you grip his forearms, he can take the heat of your quirk. He sucks in a breath through his teeth when your scalding palms make contact with his skin.

You’re able to keep it under control for now. You take note of the way your tits bounce with each of his thrusts. He watches them, eyes almost unfocused, unfazed by the blistering heat of your palms, before his gaze locks with yours when you start to speak.

“Want you to fuck me from behind, please,” you mumble, words blending together as you try to keep your eyes open. The pleasure is making your brain feel thick.

“Fuck yes, turn that pretty ass around,” he agrees, leaning back and pulling his cock free. It bounces slightly and you notice he’s glistening from your slick, notching your arousal up by a few degrees.

You don’t waste a second, rolling over onto your belly. The sensation of moving underwater is what you would compare it to.

You raise up on your knees, showing off the curve of your spine as you rest your cheek on the mattress below. The sheets are soft, caressing your skin as you nuzzle against it, distractedly.

You’re gripping the sheets by your head when you feel Touya’s palm crack harshly against your ass,forcing you to jolt forward.

“Ah!” You whine into the sheets. He must’ve heated his hand, because you can feel your ass almost blistering from where he spanked you.

You assume that’s some sort of revenge from what you did to his forearms earlier. Not that it matters, the pain and pleasure mix together even better.

“Look at you, so obedient. You want me to fuck you like a dog, don’t you?” He teases, words sitting heavy on his tongue.

He grips the base of his cock and rubs the head between your lips, parting them easily.

You open your mouth to answer but you’re cut off. He’s already bullying his way back into you without abandon.

Touya grips your hips tight enough you worry he’s gripping the bone. His cock throbs, your pussy feels tighter this way.

It’s making his head spin, watching himself pull out, cock shiny and slick, before filling you once again. His heart thumps hard in his rib cage, thinking about just how much he fucking loves you.

“Oh god.” You shove your face into the mattress as Touya starts to move hard and fast. His cock filling you out perfectly with each thrust.

The friction is blistering, pleasure burning through your limbs. He presses his hands into your lower back, pushing the arch in your spine to its breaking point and he uses his weight to fuck you.

His cock bullies your sweet spot again and again, ripping muffled screams from your throat and into the mattress.

You’re starting to squirm under him, overly sensitive while he pushes you closer to your peak. You unconsciously try to crawl away from him, but he notices. You’ve started to fist the sheets again, for any kind of leverage.

“That’s the spot, isn’t baby? You’re so cute, trying to crawl away from me. You’re not fucking going anywhere. Be good, baby girl,” he demands, huffing lightly. He leans forward to brace one hand on the back of your neck, pinning you down.

He lets his other hand rest on the middle of your lower back, pressing down there too. How you’re able to keep your knees under you is beyond you. The first heavy thrust after that has you wailing, eyes stinging with tears.

“Fuck! Touya, right there, don’t stop,” you beg, feeling small underneath him. The pleasure is overwhelming. It’s not long at all before a knot starts to wind up taught in your lower abdomen, and you struggle to try and warn him.

“Go ahead princess, I’ve got you. Cum for me, I want to feel it,” Touya purrs, bending forward to brace one hand by your head. The other still pining you down by the back of the neck.

The staples adorning his wrist feel cold against your overheated flesh. Oddly enough, the difference in temperature is what pushes you over the edge.

You cum, brutally. Pussy fluttering, gripping Touya so tight you can’t believe he’s still sliding in and out of you. Heat gushes through you in waves, curling your toes.

“Oh!” you gasp, a pressure building in your bladder. “You’re gonna make me squirt,” you say in surprise. Fingernails bite into your skin, warm breath is against your ear.

“Then fucking do it baby,” he breathes, never slowing his pace. A thrill runs through you, fingers curling in the sheets.

Pleasure ripples through you as you squirt. Soaking the sheets and Touya’s inner thighs. Your mouth stays open in a silent scream.

Touya moans in your ear, whispering words of encouragement as he works you through it. You notice his cock start to twitch inside you as you come down from your high.

Touya murmurs sweet nothings against your ear, letting you know he’s about to cum.

You tell him just how much you want it, how much you need to him to fill you up—and he does just that. Pressing all the way in until his balls fit snugly against your pussy. 

Touya cums with a noise that sounds like it’s been punched from his chest. Panting as he nudges your knees out from you, so you both collapse to the mattress.

You both catch you breath for a moment, Touya letting himself go soft before he makes a move to pull out. 

Touya rolls off you gently, onto his back. You breathe a sigh of relief, turning your head to see if his face.

“Are you okay?” he asks, cheeks flushed from the strenuous movements.

“I’m great,” you laugh, poking his ribs. He chuckles, giving you a half smile. “Can you get me a towel? Seeing as it’s your fault I’m a mess now,” you tease. Touya rolls his eyes playfully.

You flip over onto your back as retreats to get a towel, returning swiftly.

”Thank you,” you hum, cleaning yourself the best you can, not bothering to put clothes back on as you get under the blankets.

You sigh happily, turning on your side as the bed dips. Touya settles down facing you, snaking an arm around your waist to tug you closer.

“I love you,” you whisper, trailing your fingers down the side of his face, stopping to press on one of his staples under his eye. 

“I love you,” he replies, just as softly.

”I’ll follow you to hell, you know that, right?” You say, raising an eyebrow. He sighs, leaning forward to brush a kiss over your forehead.

“I know. I’ll incinerate the world for you, you know that, right?” He teases, placing his forehead on yours. You laugh gently, nodding as you kiss him once more.

[just-some-random-blogger]

I love your writing and I’d love you to write some battle weary/stressed Gwayne who just needs the comfort only sucking on his lady wife’s tits can bring him

A/N: this is giving mommy issues and I'm here for it. I have been busy with work, thus why I have nawt been able to write. i hope you see this nonnie! and i hope you like it <3 also 😋😋 there are now so many gwayne gifs to choose from YIPPIE YIPPE 👹GWAYNISM👹

Flesh & Teeth

Gwayne grew up with all the comforts he could ever want, and yet there was a comfort that he could not claim, that is, until he was wed to you.

Gwayne Hightower x Reader | >500 | cw: fem!reader, wife!reader, smut-ish, tired!gwayne, fluff?, typos, etc.

Tagging: @targs-on-zorses @lancedoncrimsonwings @your-booklover-gal @milesdrift

Gwayne leans his hands on the basin as water on his face drips. The exhaustion on his body refuses to join the liquid that flees his skin.

He forfeits wiping his face for freeing himself of his strangling clothes. One by one, his clothing drops to the ground on his way to his bed, to his wife.

He collapses on his chest, making the mattress bounce and the woman laid there reading a book turn to him. You watch as your husband sighs and crawls towards you. You place your book on the nightstand as the man with auburn locks rests his cheek on your lap.

He grabs your torso, securing his arms around you. He presses his face into your belly, gripping your nightgown for dear life. The wetness of his face is absorbed by your blanket and clothes.

You comb his damp tresses away back and frown, "has the day been cruel to my sweet pup?"

Gwayne does not respond, too soothed by the gentle scrape of your fingernails on his scalp. He buries his face deeper into your belly, but he could go no further, thus eliciting a whimper from you, "Gwayne."

He relents, pulling his face away with a sharp breath in, "I need you."

In truth, he did not have to say it for you to know, and so when he started pulling your blanket down and your dress up, you simply let it happen. He slots himself between your legs and dives under your clothes. Your hands come around him as he nestles his face by your collarbone.

You pull your chin back in an attempt to look at him from under your clothes. He grabs your thigh when you pull your leg away from him, then wraps it around his body.

"Oh, pup," you stroke his head, "has fatigue turned your bones to steel?"

He responds by rubbing his nose on your sternum. Your breath catches when he begins to kiss you. You mumble his name when he licks you.

Gwayne understands perfectly that you mean to stop him, that you mean to chastise him for using up what remained of his dwindling energy for his carnal wants instead of sleeping. Yet in knowing this, he does not relent.

"Gwayne," you hum, "you should-" but your words are cut short by the grazing of his teeth on the side of your breast, which is directly followed by the sucking of your teat.

Your hand flies to his head; you grip his hair through your clothes.

"My love," you try again, to no avail.

The warmth of his mouth only spreads on your flesh. His hand comes to your hip when you writhe and try push him away. He pushes down, pinning you beneath him with his weight. You whimper when he nips your skin once more.

"Hush," he breathes against your skin, "I am not so frail to succumb to fatigue for fucking my wife."

Your expression twists, "you have been awake since the hour of the wolf."

He hums. He lifts his gaze and bats his lashes, "and so reward me for my zeal."

You raise your brows and purse your lips.

"You would deny me of my favorite dessert?"

You do not find it in you to respond when his mouth finds your other breast and your body warms at the ministrations of your husband. You simply tell yourself that if he tried to push things further, you would deny him for his own sake.

You sigh, as if you could.

[ofstardustanddreaming]

seasoned warrior

preference summary: you're a very seasoned warrior and are covered in scars and wounds from past battles, and how the characters would react to seeing your scars or watching you fight. (original ask)

content warnings: mentions/descriptions of battle scars

fandom: baldur's gate 3

characters: gale, astarion, wyll, halsin, karlach

gender neutral reader

requested by: @tolkien-fantasy

a.n. - i am so sorry these are coming so late, i ran into some car issues these past couple of days, and a new job has started. it's been exhausting lately lol

Gale: I feel like this man would bite down on his fist seeing you in battle, he thinks you're so cool with scars. He's so focused on you during battle that he notices your litter of scars when your shirt is torn in the torso area. (He tries not to drool over you and that reaction is quickly taken away when he's curious as to why you have so many scars.) He's following you afterwards, wherever you go, trying to be subtle about his nosiness. He's curious to what caused the scars, though he figures a lot of battles. He just wants to hear the stories, the learner he is needs to know all of them. You think it's endearing though, that he tries to hold himself back for the sake of your privacy. You feed him a bone though, wondering if he would take the bait and ask you outright. You tell him about the scar he saw on your torso, what battle you fought, and that's all it takes for him to ask you about the other scars you have, leading to a long night of stories.

Astarion: You hadn't intended on anyone really finding out just how many scars you have, but you're thwarted with that the first time Astarion feeds on you. He nudges your shirt just a little to far down your shoulder to feed, and he takes note of the lengthy scar running from the base of your neck down your shoulder, where it disappears down the rest of your arm he presumes, as it's covered by your long sleeves. He continues his feed, albeit a little curious. (Of course he wouldn't admit his questions are out of a pinch of concern, but overall he is just curious about his "meal" and making sure they're good for future feeds.) You show him other scars you've obtained in various battles, telling him about the specific battle for each one. These series of actions, of showing your scars, helps him come to term with his own when he finally trusts you to tell you about it.

Wyll: He doesn't mind your scars, he's very curious about all of them. He thinks your scars are a physical manifestation of your strength, always looking in awe whenever you fight. He knows you have the experience, as by your scars, thinking you look truly attractive when you fight in other battles. He finds out your stories through when you share them with the group, to nervous to ask you your stories in a private manner. He eats up anything you share, curious to every scar you have. When you guys start dating, you eventually let him in to some of the more miniscule details of your stories, ones you didn't share with the group. He was glad to hear more, always loving to hear what you've obtained. He loves kissing your scars after hearing their story, it always causes you to hide your face in embarrassment, but it allows him to then move your face back towards him as he presses a kiss to your lips.

Halsin: He thinks it makes you a brave warrior, seeing you littered with the scars of previous battles. He respects your privacy, knowing that some scars carry heavier weight than others, and didn't want to bring up anything you didn't want to talk about. You're both cuddling one night, the warmth of it causing you to cuddle shirtless with one another, and you're taken slightly off guard when Halsin traces one of your scars on the hip. You clear your throat, starting to tell him about the various scars you've sustained. You point to various scars, softly telling him all of the different stories, at least the ones you could before you both decided you wanted to sleep. But Halsin listens carefully to what you have to say, his wise self always knowing what's needed in the situation. He puts in comments where it's needed, boosting you up when you're seemingly insecure. At the end of the day, Halsin doesn't mind what you look like, the scars are something that he loves looking at, he'll always remind you.

Karlach: She thinks it's really cool, wanting to know how you got all of them. She's the type of person to brag about your stories to other people, wanting everyone to know what kind of badass her partner is. She loves seeing you in battle, although she leans more into a protective state. She has plenty of scars herself, knowing how much they hurt, and she doesn't want to see you gain anymore. But she backs off a little when you talk to her about it, saying you also know how to take care of the scars. It doesn't mean you don't appreciate her helping you or having your back, but you want to work as a team, not wanting to be kicked to the sidelines. You both bring your experience to the battlefield, now having shared scars from battles together. It's something you both carry with each other, almost like shared secrets.

[hoshinasblade]

one-sided enemies to (hopefully) lovers trope featuring hoshina soshiro

your blood boils every time you hear hoshina soshiro's laugh.

it is less about the shrill sound of his laughter but more about the fact that something about the guy unsettles you - from how his standard-issued uniform jacket is zipped midway his chest to his ridiculous hairstyle that does nothing to diminish his appeal on the operations managers to how he is undeniably the strongest close-quarters combatant in the entire defense force. everything about hoshina soshiro disturbs you, and there came a time that even your own division commander got a bit weirded out - gen narumi has this bone to pick with vice-captain hoshina, but you technically have nothing. "bad vibes," you responded once when asked why you seem to hate the guts of the man who can be compared to the literal sunshine of their division.

you were in for a rude awakening when you discovered that hoshina's laugh actually sounds a thousand times worse when shared with another woman who is not you.

your already foul mood rockbottomed when you saw the vice-captain whispering a joke on an operations manager - okonogi, you think is her name. the realisation felt like cold water poured suddenly on you: maybe you hate hoshina soshiro because you being in love with him is an idea too frightening that you did not have the choice but to deny it. after all it's been said that love and hatred are the faces of the same coin.

"oh, if it isn't narumi's right-hand woman", hoshina teased once you are in front of him in the training rooms. the defense force divisions hold a annual conference that are really more of an informal meet for the officers from the entire country. after a short session of the leading officials where top-secret strategies are discussed, a customary face-off between representatives of the divisions commence. this year it has been decided that close-quarters fighting techniques will be assessed, thus a sparring match between you from the first division, and hoshina soshiro from the third.

"i hope you know you're going down," hoshina winked, obviously provoking you. well, two can play at this game.

"as long as you're the one on top of me, i'm cool." your retort was enough to make hoshina blush. mission accomplished.

[namikawa]

— [the perfect host]

featuring: s. geto, s. gojo

cw: smut, implied threesome, cunnulingus, implied m/m, phone sex (?), daddy kink (ofc), established relationship (reader & gojo), fingering, fem reader, chubby reader, getting “caught” masturbating, use of the word cunt (sorry lol), aftercare, not proofread fr, anything else i forgot lolz, pet names (mama, baby, pretty, sweetheart, love). wc: n/a.

notes: this is actually a fic my friend wrote (never published) & i re did it with two diff characters & finished it for her cause she never did… so if yall like it GO TO HER BLOG ILL TAG HER. this wasn’t my og idea i just wrote the smut and tweaked & added. but enjoy pls, sorry i haven’t posted in so long life has beat me up. @nvmjccnluv !!!

“so explain to me why i’m watching her again, she seems completely capable of staying in your apartment alone yknow.” suguru questions over the phone. it’s not that he hates you, but what if he was busy? he wasn’t, but gojo didn’t need to know that, he didn’t even ask to be fair. quickly dropping you off after handing the long haired man a small bag of your things.

on the other end of the phone gojo lets out a huff of laughter. “had a few things to finish up, she gets too lonely when i leave her at home so i didn’t want her getting into things. you know how it is.”

“i actually don’t, but okay man.”

“anyway, she doesn’t like many people but she didn’t seem to mind you the last time we hung out, you seemed like a safe option.” gojo continues, sounding a bit strained.

“okay, whatever, fine.”

“where’s she at anyways? if she was with you she would’ve jumped your bones to get to the phone.”

walking toward the the closed door in the hallway, geto chuckles before reassuring his friend. “relax dude, she’s in the room taking a na- holy shit.”

-

“what happened??”

the dark haired man places his ear on the door to make sure he’s not hallucinating, not saying that he’s hoping to be.

muffled moans greet his ears, but not muffled enough evidently. no, you wanted him to hear. he would have to pass by your room anyways, given that you two would be sharing a wall for the night. but him being on the phone with your boyfriend was just a coincidence, an extremely embarrassing one.

he listens to your soft whines and high pitched whimpers for what feels like days, though its hasn’t even been half a minute, paying no mind to the man yelling at him on the phone.

“SUGURU? ANSWER ME! IS SHE OKAY? I SWEAR IF SOMETHING HAPPE-” at this point geto tries to think as hard as possible to come up with a lie that won’t get him killed by his friend.

snapping out of his daze, he finally gets enough courage to respond, “yeah um i’m pretty sure, maybe i’m wrong, i think she’s uh masturbating.”

“oh, oh okay” suguru can basically hear a smirk he knows all to well forming on gojos mouth. “don’t be a rude host, go help her out man.”

what the fuck is he talking about help you out? he can’t be understanding that this is his girlfriend he’s talking about, right? on top of that, shouldn’t he be asking you for consent as well.

“are you insane man? i know you’re into all that weird shit, but her? she’d probably kill me before i even got close to the bed and throw my dead body out of my own apartment.” as nice as it sounds he didn’t know if you’d be okay with any of this. he wasn’t going to just walk straight in, right?

there’s a loud howl that comes directly from the other end of the phone. “are you really being this much of a pussy right now? i’m giving you full permission to go help my girl out, and you wanna whine about how she might kill y-”

“shut the hell up man, i didn’t say anything about being a pussy.”

“alright, then there shouldn’t be an issue with you helping her out. don’t sit up on your high horse and act like you haven’t thought about it before, i know just how those perverted thoughts of yours work, don’t you rememb-”

“okay okay shut up satoru, im going.”

pushing open the door, the first thing geto notices is your hand rubbing lightly between your soft thighs and how your wetness soaks the bed, clear evidence of how needy you were. how long have you been at it?

gojo can hear you so clearly over the phone, he might as well be in the room with you, “shit, is that her pussy i’m hearing? whats it look like?” he questions, but unfortunately for him he receives no answer.

suguru is too busy enjoying the view and listening to the pathetic little sounds coming from your cunt. his sweatpants are slowly starting to fit a little tighter than before, but he doesn’t make any movements yet, just in case you don’t wanna play this little game.

almost immediately your soft eyes flutter open and lock into his, and he swears he just came in his pants.

“sugi, please, it hurts so much,” you whine out to him, desperate for his veiny hands on you. your own hand never seems to falter though, only moving in more erratic circles around your sensitive clit; while your other hand is busy touching your nipples, trying to get the most stimulation possible.

knowing that you were just as needy for him as he was for you made the man’s confidence peak. he gives you a light smile as he walks closer to the bed, softly sitting down next to you. he leans over you a bit, close enough to where you can smell the minty, almost overpowering, scent of his shampoo. half his hair loosely tied up in a bun, the other half falling past his shoulders as he looks down at you.

“something wrong, pretty? those fingers not doing enough for you, right? don’t ‘cha wanna wait for your boyfriend to come back so he can help you out, he’s on the phone you know.”

his soft hands begin to work at your thighs, but it seems like it’ll never be any more than that. continuing for a little longer, he presses the speaker button on his phone, handing it over to you as you pull away from your core.

“can you hear me, sweetheart?” gojo asks, now finally getting some time to speak to you after being ignored for so long. “i gave sugi permission to help you out, okay? does that sound alright to you?” he utilizes the small nickname you’d given his friend, innocently coercing you to be good.

you give a small “mmm” in agreement. then, opening your legs, you grab at suguru’s hand and place it between your thighs, just barely touching your cunt.

gojo continues, smiling to himself on the other side of the device. “‘kay. i’m gonna talk you through it, just so i know you’re treating my girl right. take two of your fingers and stuff it inside of her, she’ll clench up at first but just keep working at it and she’ll open up, okay? maybe if you do good, you can have something too.”

geto lets out an annoyed breath, short, but just long enough for gojo to catch it. he knows what that means. what’s even stopping him from fucking you in first place? it’s not like gojo would know. but as he looks into your pleading eyes he realizes he’d do anything to make sure you’re content and happy.. even if that means listening to satoru’s perverted requests.

his fingers slide down to rub at your clit just a bit, before burying his pointer and ring finger deep into your cunt, you clench so tight around him, it makes him feel like he’s dreaming the way your teeth suck at your bottom lip attempting to hide your whines.

“cmon pretty, open up for me. promise i’ll make you feel good, okay?”

a throaty whimper slides from between your lips as geto’s fingers work you open. “‘s good sugi, please like that more.” you scoot down a little more, chasing his fingers to get even just a little more stimulation.

“next you’re gonna press on her clit, just a little though she’s a sensitive little thing.” gojo groans out, it’s obvious he’s taken a break from his work to focus on… other things.

“yeah yeah, i know how to use my fingers, asshole.” suguru voices, clearly annoyed. although, he still abides by the instructions and moves his thumb to press on your clit just a tiny bit. your back arches away from his fingers almost immediately, like a natural instinct, he grabs your plush hips with his other hand, pulling you back down. “nuh uh, c’mere sweet girl, you wanted my help you’re gonna get it.”

his delicate fingers curve upward into you and you feel as if you’re floating on cloud nine, the way he flicks them at just the right speed while managing to hold you down and deepen his movements. it’s all too much for him you.

the sound of gojo’s voice breaks geto out of his daze, “fuck, i gotta go suguru. i know you’ll take care of her. i’m gonna have to cut this shit short, i’ll try to come back later tonight instead of tomorrow morning. love you guys, love you baby, be good for sugi okay?” geto’s eyes immediately flicker to yours, and you see just a little bit of what you think could be fear, or excitement, in his eyes.

“bye daddy, love you too.” you whine out, hearing a quick click before the call ends.

“daddy?” he questions. “knew he was into some shit, didn’t know you were too, sweet girl. you’re too pretty and innocent, or at least you put up a good act.” his fingers slide out of you as he snickers, not ignoring the way you pout at the loss of stimuli.

“nah, not gonna leave you here all needy don’t worry mama, just gonna do it my way, that sound good to you?” geto grabs you by your hips as you choke out a small “yea”, pushing you closer to the headboard of the bed. he fully removes his hair tie and throws all of it up into a bun, swiftly grabbing your underwear and pulling it off.

you look down at him as he crawls closer to you on his stomach, wrapping his arms around your thighs and closing them around his head. you feel his fingers spread your cunt apart, licking a long stripe onto you. your body tenses up, and on instinct your hand finds its way into suguru’s hair, tugging lightly. his head perks up at you, smiling, but eventually just deciding to leave you be.

his tongue swipes over your clit, taking small breaths occasionally as he tastes your cunt. neither one of you know who this is really for at this point. he’s supposed to be ‘helping you’ but with the tent growing in his sweats he might as well be doing this for his own pleasure instead. you continue to take harsh pulls at his dark strands, so unfamiliar to you. mostly with satoru you opted for scratching at his shoulders or gripping at the sheets due to the length he kept his hair, but this, this was something you could get used to.

“sugi please, m so close, want it so bad, need you to make me cum.” you cry out, loving the way his nose rubs against your clit as he licks.

he doesn’t say anything, he can’t really, but you know he understands. he grips your thighs tighter, licking the same way as before, occasionally sucking at your clit, and before you know it you’re squirming all over his face as that familiar feeling rushes over you.

the only thing that suguru could make out of your cries were “thank you”, “so good”, and “daddy”? he wasn’t sure if you were calling him daddy or if you wanted gojo, but at this point it didn’t really matter to him. he pleased you and that’s all he needed to make him feel better.

as he lifted his head up from your pussy he could already tell how tired you were getting, he immediately grabbed you a change of clothes that gojo had packed and cleaned you up with a wet washcloth. “everything okay, mama? need anything?” your eyes strain open and you smile at the man standing above you, “i’m okay, thank you for your help. will you stay?” you could tell that he genuinely cared for you, and was worried he had done something wrong by the tone in his voice. him staying was more for him rather than yourself, not that you were complaining.

he pulled off his shirt as he crawled into bed next to you. grabbing his phone from the bedside table he saw that gojo had sent him a message.

“i’ll take care of you both when i’m back, cause i’m betting you didn’t take anything for yourself. see you both soon ;)”

suguru chuckled to himself at the message from his friend, looking down at you peacefully sleeping on his chest. maybe he could get used to something like this? but for now, he’s content.

[luvrodite]

lover, be good to me. jason todd [3.4k]

synopsis. in the third summer of your love, you get sick.

cw. gn!reader, sickfic, mental health issues, descriptions of weight fluctuation, angst, hurt/comfort. medication. this one is a bit heavy so please exercise discretion. written from the perspective of chronic illness but nothing is specified beyond discussion of mental health symptoms.

There’s a ghost that lives in your home.

This thing lives between you and Jason, a haunting in every room, a presence you can’t not feel. You feel its baleful eyes on you in dreams and upon waking, strongest in the winter, when the East Coast chill sinks its teeth into your arms hard enough to reach bone. 

It goes like this: sometime in the third summer of your love, you get sick. There isn’t anything to point to what it is exactly, only that one June morning you don’t get out of bed. It’s nothing until it is, the next several weeks spent making a home in the four walls of your shared bedroom. 

A flip switches seemingly overnight, and you’re further from your lover than you’ve ever been. 

Jason - and the part of you that knows better, dormant now, buried beneath the rubble - watches in mute horror as you bring yourself to ruin. The desire to be good, the control you’ve held over yourself, slips free of your grasp in seconds. Invisible threads are picked at until you’re frayed at the ends and your beloved home, this reprieve the two of you had as good as built from the ground up, falls victim to it. 

You pick fights. You slam doors and hide in the bathroom for hours on end. You want to scream yourself hoarse, your fingers itching for violence, longing to shatter something if only to give life to this sickness that lives in you, as if by breaking, you’ll cast it out. The exorcism does not come, but a cloying feeling sits beneath your skin, strangling, blood sitting stagnant in your veins and rotting. 

There are moments of clarity, when you lift your head from the haze and the gravity of all you’ve done barrels into you like a freight train. Those do not last long, invisible hands pulling you back under before you can correct your course. It's as though you take the backseat, replaced by something entirely that takes the controls, watching in mute horror as you destroy everything around you.

Jason gives it back just as good but even then, even in the anger, there’s something else in his eyes. You catalogue it, feeling as though your very soul has split – it’s the you from before that weeps at this, reaching out for your lover in prostration, begging for forgiveness. The being that lives in you now, volatile, ever shifting like a burning flame, burns too bright to feel shame. He is there, and he loves you – enough to bear the brunt of your pain, apparently. Shards of shrapnel, your anger is explosive and shatters everything in its wake. It cares not for sentiment, for history and love. You hurt, and it is blinding. 

The doctor’s appointment is booked far later than it ought to be, after weeks of tumultuousness that have left a dour cover over your home, seeping through the cracks in the walls and into the surrounding apartments. Your neighbours must loathe you. You’re too detached, too selfish to care.

The night before is the most clear headed you’ve felt all month, haze lifting as if to show you – look what you’ve done, look at all you’ve wrought. The devastation floors you, the grief you’ve caused to the one you love most curdles your blood and you weep in Jason’s arms. Knelt before him, you press your wet face into his lap. 

I’ll be good. I promise, I’ll try to be better, I’m sorry. 

You can barely breathe through your tears, broken hearted, sure you must be dying. Has anyone ever felt such grief, you wonder, and the thought is immediately followed by a tidal wave of self loathing. Selfish, so focused on your own misgivings. This is no way to live.

He tells you he loves you and it feels like a kindness you don’t deserve. Too good a man for you, an exhaustion from the last month lines his features. The thought terrifies you, that you’ve veered too close to the precipice of forever splintering him, that under your hand he knows other, less gentle things. Yours has not been a peaceful love as of late, and you wonder if this will be the straw that breaks his back.

In the waiting room, his hand finds yours. A good man, one you do not deserve. He doesn’t let go. Not when your name is called, not when you tell your doctor what’s been happening.

You hope, foolish, desperate thing that you are, that they’ll offer a quick fix. It’s laughable, but the soft turn of the doctor’s gaze makes your stomach twist. So begins the year of doctor’s visits.

You become very familiar with waiting rooms, sterile rooms and the low buzz of the news channel playing on TVs, pale walls and water coolers, paper cups shredded in your lap. 

The first shrink you talk to is, at first, the answer to all your problems – Jason balks at it, in the beginning, and you hear him muttering to his brother on the phone but he doesn’t breathe a word of it to you. If it helps you, that’s all that matters. The man listens. He understands how hard things are and how your hurt is poisoning you. He makes the right noises and his cardigan lends him an air of sincerity, brown eyes framed by thick glasses that in the glare of the light feel kind, almost like kinship.

You’re desperate for a solution, even if it means taking the prescription pills that after about a week, leave you with hands that shake violently anytime you raise them, shedding too much weight, way too fast. The insomnia comes next, and then the pills that are meant to fix that. Orange, smaller than the nail on your little finger. The tremors do not go away, but in settles a new drowsiness, bringing with it vivid dreams that feel terrifyingly lifelike. You wake in a sheen of sweat to the already awake gaze of your boyfriend, eyes wide and wary, hands finding yours in the dark, whispering reassurances when you cry again. 

How many tears have you spent this year, and how many have you subjected him to?

His kindness feels like a balm over your jagged edges, and you shake your head when he first tentatively suggests that the medicine isn’t working. You’re determined to stick to your vow. You love him, you need to get better. You can’t keep living like this, can’t do the fits of rage, can’t do the mood changes. You can’t keep hurting the both of you.

Still, sleep evades you, a cruel thing dancing out of reach even when you’re told to double down on the dose. The dreams only worsen, virulent hues of fluorescent greens and red, blood and viscera on your hands. 

It feels like a condemnation when Jason mutters one night, after you’ve woken from yet another dream, body stiff with fright and reaching out for him, less hesitant now in the face of your tears, “This isn’t working.”

Bitterly, you find you can’t argue with him. Worse, you’ve shelled out a horrifying amount of money simply to vent to a yes-man. The pills are disposed of in the morning and another appointment scheduled.

Back in the waiting rooms, back to discussing other, not-shrink options, Jason’s hand finds yours once more. You watch the news, watch tired parents wrangle their sick children, watch the colourful plastic toys. 

“I hate this,” you whisper, leaning into his side. 

You’ve been unwell for a month and then some, by now. The waiting room feels like a taunt – you are sick, you are suffering. The sickness festering in you, the rot you can’t explain, makes you feel smaller than ever, frail in a way you haven’t known before. 

Before, you used to like that Jason was so much bigger than you, that he could protect you. This, though, he cannot save you from, a fact you’re sure frustrates him just as much as your weakness does you. There is the anger, of course, but there is also fear. What is to become of you now? Your life, through your failing health, has been torn from you. You feel robbed, feel a distinctly you-shaped loss in your frame that leaves you teetering on a precipice. How quickly things had taken a turn, and there was nothing you could do about it.

Jason sighs, turning to press his mouth against your hairline. “I know. I know, baby.”

You’re sent off with forms for another blood test. Maybe it’s something different, and there burns a beacon of hope. It is also entirely possible you’ll spend another six months on medication that doesn’t work. 

You don’t care for this. There is a hopelessness and vulnerability to feeling sick that you do not care for, catching sight of yourself in the bathroom mirror and doctor’s office scales and fluctuating weight – you begin to turn your head away from the numbers at this point like you're being stuck by a needle, meeting your lover’s eye while the doctor takes his notes and finding comfort in teal irises, in the small grin he gives you when you’ve done something he thinks to be brave. You don’t care for any of it, but you must. For him. 

He hasn’t breathed a word of contention to you – a good man – but you know it weighs on him. You’ve woken once or twice in the night to find him watching over you, something in his eyes like he fears you’ll slip away, a hand always in yours, or holding you close to him. 

Guilt, ever-cutting, roils in your stomach. The anger cedes these days to make way for it, and your eyes burn, shame becoming a familiar friend.

“I’ve put you through the wringer, haven’t I?” you whisper on one of these nights. He blinks, unaware you’ve woken, and it speaks to how tired he must be that he’d not noticed, too lost in his thoughts to feel your eyes on him.

He cradles your jaw tenderly with one hand, kissing your temple. “No more than I’ve worried you.”

It’s true that you’ve faced your own set of troubles with him. Still, it feels distinctly different – his anger had been the product of fear, a genuine terror at the thought of letting you get too close. There’s decay in you, one you aren’t sure has entirely left, despite your placidity these days. 

“I’m sorry.” You apologise and he narrows his eyes, but you reach for his hand, intertwining your fingers. “You’re a good man.”

“Don’t be stupid,” he grumbles. “Obviously I’m going to fuckin’ look after you.”

Do I deserve it? You think.

“Wish you’d let me do the same for you,” you whisper, instead. It’s a truth you’ve often spoken, but feels like a lie in this moment, a deflection of your feelings. Guilt, once more, settles on your tongue, cloying against your tastebuds.

He kisses you sweetly, and you wonder if he can taste it. Something in the slant of his lips tells you he knows. How could he not? Once, twice, he brushes his mouth over yours. Chaste, loving. “Just get better. Then, maybe. I’ll consider it.”

Your eyes burn, fear like the tide, washing in once more. “What if–” your breath hitches, a lump forming in your throat.

“What?” His voice is soft, encouraging.

“What if it isn’t–if I don’t–” you can’t make out the words. The pad of his fingers brush over your lips.

“You will,” Jason whispers, voice thick. His eyes are bright in the dark, you realise, horrifyingly, sapphires covered in a sheen of liquid. “You will, ‘cause you promised me. And I’m holding you to it.”

You hear it for what it is – I’m here. I’m here and I’m not letting go of you. Don’t let go of me.

He’s asked for so little. Good men are rare to find in Gotham and you’ve got the best of them. You reach up and clutch his wrist, hands turning until your fingers slot comfortably between each other. 

“Okay,” you tell him, and you know he knows. I’m going to get better. 

The diagnosis comes eventually. In your relief, there is also bitterness. Another step forward, it still feels entirely too late. It should have come before, you think. Before you’d taken a sledgehammer to your love, before you’d fractured yourself and Jason from the inside out, before you’d put scars where there had been none, invisible lacerations lining the walls of your chest.

The medication – pills, pills, always pills – is difficult to adjust to at first. It leaves you short of breath, and more anxious, reaching for Jason to ground you. You cry a lot and though it isn’t anything new, there’s a misery in Jason’s eyes that only makes you weep more. You want to be okay again. You want to smile at him without the weight of all you’ve done, without knowing you’ve made him cry when he thinks you’re asleep, tears bleeding silently into the space of the pillowcase above your head. You want to go back so bad it makes your hands shake.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling. Jason, on his side, brushes a finger over the swell of your cheek.

“Can I say something.”

You hum, sliding your eyes over to him. He gives you a tentative smile - the barest quirk of his lips. 

“Maybe I’m being hopeful, I don’t know,” he mutters, eyes tracing the slope of your nose. “Tell me to shut up if I start talking too much.”

This bashfulness makes you laugh a little. It’s so much like before, and you ache for it. For a moment, you can pretend nothing bad has happened, that the two of you are just in love and home. 

(You wonder if you will always be reaching for before. If you’ll ever get it back, if you’ll always long for it. You wonder if Jason does too.)

“What?” you breathe out.

“Think the meds are working.”

Your breathing shallows and you blink at Jason. Hope is a fickle thing, and it feels tremulous, dancing just before your fingers, as if coaxing you to reach out. You trust him more than anyone in the world, but you’re scared to hope. “What?”

His knuckle brushes over your cheek. “You don’t look as tired.”

You avert your eyes. “Maybe I��m just sleeping better.” Tell me. I’m selfish, I know, but tell me I’m doing better. I need to hear it from you.

He shakes his head, and you quietly marvel at the bloom of pleasure in his face, a contentment you haven’t seen in months in the crease around his eyes. “It’s not that.”

The doctor confirms this when you go back a few weeks later and Jason, so like himself for a brief moment, meets your eyes over the man’s head and mouths, I told you. You bite back a grin, still wary, barely out of the woods. 

“You’ve gained weight,” the doctor says when he gets you on the scale, and he sounds so pleased the sound shoots straight through to your heart, flintstone striking a light, kindling hope for the first time in months. You look down to the numbers flashing back at you, to your lover – but he’s already watching you, eyes creased in silent pleasure. 

You are the last to accept this tentative beginning to peace, to healing, but he waits for you at the threshold, hand outstretched. 

There is no tangible evidence of the destruction you’ve wrought in your home but it lingers, even as you begin the slow crawl out of the woods. You see it in the lines of your lover’s face. There are corners of the room you cannot bear to look at for the first few months following your appointment, too reminiscent of words you’d bellowed in a rage induced haze, captive to your own body. 

This history is one too fresh, too tender to accept just yet, wounds still pink and raw. You cannot face yourself yet. There is too much to do, too much work to do, too much at stake to jeapordise if you slip and fall now.

But Jason is a good man. Much better than you think you deserve – but he’s said the same about you, so perhaps…just maybe…you think it might even out. 

He doesn’t shy away from the worst bits of you, the ugliness you’ve bared to him does not run him off, not like how you flinch from it. You made a promise. I’m holding you to it. He’s hard to shake off, but you don’t want him to. You’re thankful, even, for the dog teeth he’s sunken into your forearm, bound together in blood.

There is grief in beginning to heal. 

Perhaps heal is not the right word, and yet there is no other for this, overcoming the last few months feels like it ought to be called healing. But this is a forever thing. You will know this deficiency for the rest of your life, will know doctor’s appointments and bloodwork – strictly cautionary, we need to make sure the dose is right so we can adjust it accordingly. 

There is grief in finding your footing. It lingers, the horror of falling victim to a biological response – that your mind should so easily be lost, it feels indicative of something greater, a weakness you need to cut out at the root. Jason shakes his head when you voice this one night – you are only ever honest like this under the cover of darkness, sleep softened and gentle enough to be frank with him. 

“You’re not weak.” He says this with love in his voice, but a thread of steel weaves through his words. “Don’t fucking say that. You’re here. That counts for a fucking lot.”

He tugs you closer and you feel it again, that fear that grips his heart. Like you might dissolve in his arms in the middle of the night. 

“I feel better–than before,” you tell him, peering up at him, eyes burning. You press a hand to your heart. “But I still feel it. It’s still here.”

He presses his forehead against yours. “I know.”

And you suppose he would know. “Is it gonna be like this forever?”

He takes a moment to think, and you have to tuck yourself into his neck to hide your tears. Raw – this year has left you raw. You’ve spent a fountain of tears, but they’re yet to run out. You find solace in the hollow of his throat; if you could, you think you would attach yourself there permanently.

“Yes, but no.” You make a questioning noise and he smooths a hand down your back. “‘S gonna be different, now. Not always going to be bad, or good, just – different.”

“Different.” The word fits oddly in your mouth, and whether it’s the late hour or your grief, you can’t make sense of it. He shudders out a breath, weary, and you press closer.

“Yeah,” he whispers into your hair. 

“I just–” you swallow with some difficulty, a lump in your throat. What is there to say that you haven’t already? “I hate this.”

His lips twitch into a tired, sympathetic grin. “I know, baby.”

Silence follows his words, where you mull over all that there is to say, sorting through the jumble of words in your head. You shift until there’s a little room between the two of you, looking up at him.

“Hey.”

He hums, and you feel his hand raise from your back to cup the back of your neck, thumb sweeping over your nape gently. 

“I’m gonna –” your breath hitches, stumbling over the words. “I’m gonna be good, I’ll – I’ll be better. I promise.”

And he knows you’re not talking about your health. This is a forever thing, after all. Your words point to the hidden cracks in the walls, the foundation of your home and heart – I’ll be better. 

Tourmaline eyes crack open a little wider to look at you, tired, but hopeful. “I know, baby. We’ll be alright.”

Ah. Of course he knows. You grin tremulously up at him and press forward to smudge a kiss against his jaw, breathing your promise once more against his skin, hoping it takes root. 

Jason waits at the threshold of your new normal, arm outstretched, knowing you’d join him eventually. He’d known, of course he had – every inch of your soul was his. He holds his hand out. 

Out of the woods, you take it.

fin.

this fic has been in my drafts since 2022 and it always felt too vulnerable to write and finish. like there needed to be a big ceremony about it. this fic is incredibly personal to me, and i always thought i had to be 'ready' to finally finish it, whatever 'ready' means. but it's a sunday night and the semester begins tomorrow, and i'm writing this in bed listening to whatever my spotify plays for me. i'm not sure if this will make sense to anyone but i hope it makes you feel something regardless.

this is a love letter to myself first and foremost, because i'm no longer afraid of reopening an old wound!! i carry her with me always and i love her and i'm taking care of her. i love her and i love you.

[eunivrse]

ASMR (VI) deal with the devil

# multi. aot characters / reader

─ you’d think crossing paths with the person who owns the voice you fuck yourself to almost every night would nearly be impossible, but then again, life is full of surprises.

chapter summary: everything you've done led up to this confontration. and now you're reaping the consequences.

content warning: nsfw (tbh just pure smut, breeding, creampie, unprotected sex, dirty talk, squirting), manipulation, complicated situationships, talks of porn and nsfw asmr

word count: 8.5k

quick note: hii hi i posted this on here for consistency purposes but the edited version of the previous chapters is only available on ao3 @ eunivrse

series m.list | next chapter

“Well, fuck.”

You aren’t sure if you cursed out loud, but the man in front of you seemed to have heard it as he clicked the roof of his mouth with his tongue, a way of poking fun at you for being so startled.

“Um- where’s Eren?” Trying to cover your surprised expression, you coughed to clear your throat.

“He’s in class. Too bad he left his phone though.” The blonde feigns a pout, swinging Eren’s phone in between his fingers to show you that he’s the one that messaged you before he placed it back on top of his friend’s desk.

“What do you want from me?” You decided to be frank instead of prancing around the topic in hand. He wanted to finish the interrupted conversation he had with you back at the party, you were aware of that. At the time, you were glad Eren stepped in before things took too far, but this time Armin calculated his steps to ensure confrontation will occur.

You’ve already lost.

He chuckles, taking a few steps closer to you until you are about a foot apart. “Why so tense, love?”

“Because- you scare me.” Probably not the best to be upfront by telling him that he’s scary to his face, but if he’s going to approach you as such, you’re going to make sure you have the upper hand.

He walks past you without a word and down the little entryway that leads to his shared dorm with Eren.

You were dumb to not even realize that the other side of the room was his. Being so infatuated with Eren, your mind has been clear of Armin and Euphoria for the past few days now. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, but the idea of it somehow didn’t cross your mind.

Your feet were moving on its own, to the bigger space where you were boned by Eren just a few days ago. Armin took a seat on his desk chair and patted the space next to him, his bed, as a gesture for you to sit.

For some reason, you followed. Your stomach was churning, swearing you could feel your anxious levels bubbling up inside of you, but still; you still did as you were told like a trained puppy.

It’s the small part of you saying that it’s the Euphoria calling you over even though it’s possible that Armin will ruin your image for knowing something you shouldn’t have.

Reputation isn’t something you value all that much, but having a horrible one amongst your circle wouldn’t be pleasant either.

You looked down on your lap as you explained before Armin had the chance to start his berating, “Armin- I know me knowing that you’re Euphoria might cause you some issues, but-“ turning your gaze to the man in front of you, you noticed how he stared at you with sincerity.

It was strange, no, Armin Arlert is strange. One moment he terrifies you then the next would be him giving you the most reassuring gestures.

It’s as if he’s toying with you.

“But- I won’t do anything with that information. I promise.” Your voice trails off in a whisper, trying to convince yourself that you aren’t scared by any means, but your body language is saying otherwise.

“I know you won’t.” His tone was slightly demeaning, a small smile forming on his face as he elaborated. “Everyone has their secrets. You reveal mine and I’ll reveal yours. An eye for an eye, right?”

“My secret?”

He beamed in amusement, “Word going out that you filmed and posted a sex tape with Eren is enough to ruin you, yeah?” Armin is enjoying every second of this, it was obvious in the way he spoke, his facial expressions gleaming with fascination.

You scoffed, an attempt of trying to hide the way you’re trembling in fear, “H-how-“

Armin interrupts. “How do I know? We’re best friends, honey.” The word ‘honey’ rolling past his tongue almost made it seem like he was looking down on you. You didn’t know an endearing word like that could come off so… condescending.

“Why… why are you doing all this?” This was all so complicated. Honestly, you just wanted sex, the last thing you wished for was to be knotted with someone who seems like has unhinged tendencies. Someone who’s willing to throw his best friend under the bus just to satiate his craving of getting what he wants.

“For fun. We don’t need to be philosophical about porn, darling.” It seemed genuine enough, his friendly shrug gave you enough of a hint that there was nothing deeper than just him having… fun. Even if that meant blackmailing you to keep himself entertained.

Continuing with his statement after it was silent for a split second, he went on. “Can I be honest? I like the thrill of being known as someone completely different online. But you know, I get upset when nosy people get in the way.” Obviously referring to you, you stay quiet, not sure what to reply with.

“Tell me, you listen to Euphoria don’t you?” It was humorous how immediate your nod was.

“Yes… I subscribe to your patreon too.” What you are trying to achieve by unraveling that information to him is beyond you. This was starting to pique your interest, just like how Armin wished to.

He jests, chuckling quietly, almost diabolically. A laugh that lasted too long as you just sat with your hands warming in between your thighs. “Hah… no wonder you figured it out so fast.” He paused then glanced at you, meeting your eyes.

It all happened so suddenly, he practically trampled onto you, his frame over yours, arms on each side of you as your back landed on his mattress.

Putting your veil of confidence back on, you asked, despite the awkward position you were placed in. “Hey, can I ask why you called me over in the first place if you knew I wasn’t gonna say anything?”

“You’re interesting. Connie… now Eren. ‘Just want to see what the hype is about. Aren’t you curious about what Euphoria can offer too?” He grinned and all you could do was nod as you stared at his pretty blue eyes.

Armin was more arrogant than you thought. Of course he is, there’s millions of people online fawning over his voice. And the man himself is right above you, face just millimeters from yours. You’re living the scenario his fans can only ever dream of while they touch themselves to the thought of this.

“And Annie?” You were pushing it with this one. While you trust Annie, it was obvious that she was keeping something from you. Not like it’s any of your business, but your curiosity got you to where you are, so you might as well ask.

But as the saying goes, curiosity killed the cat.

His eyelashes flutter as he blinks twice, then he hangs his head down, quipping while he stays in position, “Annie? She blurted out that she needed fast cash. I gave her the opportunity to record a few audios with me, so she can get a portion of the revenue we make from those audios. I think we both know that she’ll never speak of it to anyone else.”

’Just decided to stay professional.’

It sparked a memory in you, when Annie herself said the same thing back then, but what’s giving you the chills is the sharp contrast between how they both spoke of each other. Annie obviously had affection for him one way or the other, but Armin speaks of her as if they were mere co-workers.

As if sleeping with her was just a job to him. So much for his way of charity, you joke to yourself.

It’s a little terrifying but in a good-way. He’s definitely your type in that case. Someone who wouldn’t get their personal feelings in the way.

You aren't sure if Armin is the one moving way too slow, or your mind is diluted into slime that everything was going on slow motion for you, but his lips were mellowed and sweet, you can taste the familiar cherry chapstick flavor as his tongue made it in between your lips and into your mouth. Your half-lidded eyes were now fully closed, arms around his neck and his knee in between your legs.

Heart was starting to race, thumps so intense that you wouldn’t be surprised if Armin could hear it himself. Bodies pressed up on each other chest-to-chest, his hands now cupped on your cheeks— it felt warm. Armin’s kiss felt like a fluffy blanket draped over you on a cool winter night, all your doubts and worries about him didn’t matter anymore, you just wanted him now.

You already knew his voice alone could drive you in a state of euphoria, but this is way better than you could ever imagine. He was more gentle than you assumed based on the audios and the backhanded threats, it’s as if he gave you a drug to relieve your brain from thinking too much of it.

All this from a mere lip-to-lip action.

He pulled off shortly after, your eyes opening gradually, the sun from outside blazing through the window. It was obviously noon, the daylight out and about, but you were already so horny, pupils glazed with lust.

Armin pushed his thumb down on your bottom lip, swiping across it, then watched it bounce back up as soon as he released his hold. “You looked pretty in the video.” He whispers.

“You watched it?” Being aware that someone who knows who you are has actually seen it led you to realize how embarrassing you were acting in the tape. How vulnerable you let yourself be under Eren’s command.

And more so now that the man behind the microphone is talking about it.

He smiles with a sense of warmth. “You’re a natural, I admit. My favorite part was when you begged Eren to cum inside you. Would you let me do that if it were me?” If anyone else had asked you this, it’d be an immediate slap to the face, but this is him talking to you in that voice.

The voice you spent months fucking yourself to.

And he knew that.

It was such an eager nod, if you weren’t trapped right now you’d probably strip yourself naked. “Yes… I’d let you.”

Armin grins, the pads of his fingers right on your clothed crotch. “Really? You wouldn’t mind if I cum inside that pretty pussy?” His words were pure obscene, your panties definitely damp at this point.

“No.” You felt your breathing hitch, Armin’s fingers circling on the layers of fabric covering your clit. It was obvious how keen you are, your hips pushing itself towards him to feel more friction. He didn’t care to take off your underwear, he slid his hand under the garment and flicked your clit with the tip of his finger, feeding off on your hums of approval.

Your heart was thumping against your rib cage, you’ve never been this visibly antsy before. His crystal blue eyes scanning your clothed body, lips curved up into a smirk while he slips a finger in between your plush folds. The way your walls would clench around his finger, your hands sneaking and traveling around his back, your whimpers were sensual, alluring.

He leans down, face buried on your collarbones, his teeth already nipping on your skin. Noticing the faint marks littered on your neck, he kisses each one, as if he was the one that planted them on you. “Did you have a good time with Eren the other day?”

You were caught off-guard, answering with a breathy ‘yes’ as he teases his finger in you with a slight curl, even though you were praising him, not answering his question.

“Really? Hm… I bet I can do better though.” It felt like just yesterday when you were intoxicated, ear right up against your bedroom wall, wishing you were the one Euphoria was cursing, praising, cumming to. Words that might feel needles against other’s skin felt like heaven to you only because it’s Euphoria.

He kneeled on the floor, pulling your ankles apart and sliding your bottoms down, underwear leaking with arousal. It tickled each time he kissed your thigh, lips trailing up to your most intimate parts. You pulled your underwear to your inner thigh for him and he blew on your clit, glistened with slick. Licking a long stripe up your folds, you gasped, hands grasping onto his hair.

Euphoria knew what you wanted and he dished it out on you on a silver platter. He chuckled against the heat of your cunt, swearing you could feel his fucking smirk on you, then his tongue sticking out and flicking your walls. His voice was low and gruff while he groaned into you, saliva pooling and dripping all over your pussy and down your ass.

He pauses and taps your clit with his fingers, your teeth gritting in hopes of suppressing your moans. He eggs on, “Your pussy looks so much better in real life. I’m a big fan of you, you know.”

“Big fan?” You faintly ask, your attention gathered.

“Yeah,” He kisses your inner thigh. “I’ve even imagined that it was me instead of Eren in the video. Pretty pathetic of me, huh?” Judging by his tone, the lines between his intentions are blurred.

Is he mocking or praising you?

“That’s a ballsy thing to say at our first proper meeting.” You laugh, head thrown back when he flicked the tip of his tongue on your clit.

“First?” He raises an eyebrow.

You couldn’t ask any further even if you wanted to, he latched his fingers on the nook of your inner thighs, pushing you apart and nibbled on your cunt like he hadn’t had breakfast this morning. Your stomach felt tight, eyes seeing blank.

It’s been your biggest wet dream to have this man in between your legs. Although you didn’t expect him to be someone like Armin Arlert. He’s just too… poise and put together. Who would’ve thought someone as perfect as him also had skeletons in his closet?

You wreck out a cracked sob, hands searching for something to grip on. Legs dripping with his saliva and your juices, he spits on your cunt, then uses two fingers to split your folds apart. He takes a moment to stare at the clear sheen of arousal coating your pussy before sighing as a sign of approval.

With his eyes glued to the orb of saliva threatening to drip down his ivory sheets, he puckers his lips and blows towards your clit, amused by your reaction which consists of a curse and a twitch, of which he found quite cute. He teases, “well aren’t you a dirty girl?”

You play along, “I learned from the best,” implying that he’s just as filthy as you are.

Armin slowly slips a finger in between your folds and down your hole once again, relishing in the warmth of your walls compressing him so tightly. His thumb worked circles on your clit while he pushed his index in as deep as he could. All you could do was breathe out whines, too stimulated to protest for him to go faster.

It’s insane how many varying feelings you’ve gone through for the past 20 minutes. At one minute your reputation is being threatened, the next minute, the man you’ve unknowingly been fucking yourself to has his head in between your legs.

He wraps one of his arms around your groin, palm squeezing on your inner thigh to keep you spread apart. Sighing, he curls his finger inside you before pulling it out and slipping it back in, this time along with his middle finger. Armin muses, “I wanna see you cum this time, okay love?”

Hearing him talk like this live, let alone to you directly— you honestly couldn’t ask for anymore. The natural husk of his voice only intensified the knot in your tummy. He hadn’t had his finger inside you for more than 2 minutes and yet you already wanted to cum.

You aren’t too fond of Armin and his borderline demonic tendencies, but you can never resist that sultry, angelic voice of Euphoria’s. Unable to form a cohesive response from the tightness in your stomach, you stutter, “Y-yes— ah—!” He flicks his thumb up and down on your clit as he pressed light kisses down your inner thigh, his lips making their way to your pussy.

Replacing his thumb with the tip of his tongue, he jerked the wet muscle on your clit, which evoked a gasp from you. “So sweet,” he praises, kissing your clit before sucking on it. His fingers gradually increased in speed, curling them deeper with each thrust, eventually reaching the spot that provoked a pornographic moan past your lips.

“God…” You groan, your hands reaching up to massage your boobs for more stimulation. The slick sound of his fingers plunging in you was enough to push you over the edge, until—

Click!

No fucking way.

Someone’s using a key to open the door, which could only mean one thing.

Eren.

You were still for what felt like minutes, Armin quickly helping you up. Getting back to your senses, you pull your shorts back up, nearly sprinting to sit on Eren’s bed as opposed to where you just were. There’s no use of hiding, it’ll just make the situation more suspicious.

You watch Armin wipe the sheen off his chin with the back of his hands, your legs still trembling from the tingle and the denial of a release as you compose yourself. Eren unlocked the door and each of his step felt like it was in slow motion. Even you being here seems a little… off. And it’s even weirder that it was dead silent when he came in.

“Hey… guys. What’s up?” He seemed ecstatic that you were here, although confused since he didn’t invite you or anything. And he knows that Armin wasn’t too happy about you.

Before you could even juggle for an answer, Armin stepped in. “She called and since you left your phone, I answered and said she could stay here until you come back.” The fact that he was so quick to make up such a blatant lie doesn’t even surprise you anymore. He’s been able to hide his other identity so well, now you have a deeper understanding of why he probably hates your guts.

You’re like a small crack in his life that will eventually spread to break him.

Eren fell for it, responding with a nod as he walked over to cup your cheeks, leaning down for a quick, yet sincere kiss. You smile against his lips, although slight guilt was looming over you as Armin just watched. He then grabbed his phone, patting Armin on the back, and whispering something against his ear before speaking to you again. “I’m sure you both know each other by now, no need for introductions, correct?”

You weren’t sure if he’s referring to the thick tension or the fact that you two are mutual friends, but nevertheless the suspense was starting to eat you from the inside.

“Yeah… We’ve all hung out before.” You shrug, honestly starting to feel awkward that no one is discussing the elephant in the room even though that’ll probably make things worse.

Armin sat back down on his bed and pretended to go on his laptop, Eren sitting next to you on his mattress. “So what did you call me for?” He asks, his palm rubbing your thigh. Armin side-glaring at you from a few meters away, practically telling you to not speak a single word about what just happened was enough to provoke a lie out of you.

“I just wanted to see you…” Your lips perk up into a feign smile.

Eren gleams, “Really? I was actually about to ask you if you wanted to go out with me this weekend.”

His beamed expression is something that you honestly couldn’t reject. And a date doesn’t mean a relationship right? You’ve only gotten to know him for a couple of weeks anyways.

And Eren definitely isn’t the type to be serious about relationships.

“A date?” You shoot a quick glance at Armin at which he just smiled and stared at you, watching you like a hawk.

“Doesn’t have to be, though I’d prefer it if it was,” Eren’s nonchalant attitude tells you he’d probably never asked anyone out for a genuine, wholesome date. He had just said it doesn’t have to be a date, and you kinda owe him anyway for helping you get back up on your feet even if he wasn’t aware, so why not?

“Okay. You’re paying for everything though.” You stick your tongue out, at which Eren scoffed at. Your agreement to this ‘date’ is also partly to take a jab at Armin. You looked at him from the corner of your eye, his fingers click-clacking on his keyboard without a care about your conversation. But you knew he was all ears.

You looked at the time on your phone and realized you have class in half an hour. “I have to go. I’ll see you Saturday then?” You stand up, Eren grabbing your hand as he followed.

“Yeah. I’ll text you.” He kisses your cheek before letting you go. You wave to Armin before twisting the knob to leave the room. The last thing you heard before closing the door was a “see you” from Armin.

Something tells you that you will see him again before that meet-up with Eren.

---

Classes are over and you were laying on your bed, bored since everyone is busy and you’ve done everything you had to do for your classes, surprisingly.

For some reason, you were looking forward to hanging out with Eren. You didn’t really mind considering it as a date, you kinda miss the giddy feeling of getting ready and looking nice for someone.

During your moment of slight excitement, your phone dinged.

The number is unknown, but you knew who it was.

‘are we gonna finish what we started earlier?

Euphoria.

You gulped, yes, but you were wishing for this in the back of your head. There was nothing more you wanted than to have that man inside of you. Even if he’s a little crazy.

Typing, you respond, ’i’m free rn and annie isn’t here.’

That typing bubble felt as if it lasted way too long even though his response was just a mere, ‘what time will she be back?’

’not until a few days. she went home for the weekend’

The odds were in your favor, Annie took an early weekend and left a few hours ago to spend time with family.

He replied with a thumbs up, and you closed your phone, chest rising and falling, eyes glued on the ceiling.

---

The sun has set, the bright spring sky switching to its dark, gloomy counterpart. There were no stars, except for a few of which you can assume are just helicopters. It’s been a good 10 minutes since Armin had texted and as soon as it turned 9:00pm, you heard a knock on the door. You were quick on your feet to welcome him into your apartment.

Clad with an oversized shirt and his cargo pants, he walked in from the dark hallway to your humble abode, where you can clearly see that he’s wearing a pair of innocent looking glasses.

“I’m sure you’re familiar with this place,” you say sarcastically, Armin ignoring you and sitting straight at the dining table. You follow, pulling the chair from under the table and sitting across from him.

“So what do you want?” You might as well lay all your cards out if he’s threatening you.

He pushes the bridge of his glasses up to his nose. “A deal.”

Feeling a sense of deja vu, you repeat his words. “A deal?”

“Yes. Make content with me.”

You weren’t planning on retaliating, this has practically been what you’ve been fantasizing about since day one, however you weren’t going to let Armin get whatever he wants that easily.

“What’s in it for me?” You raise an eyebrow. Armin leans in closer, both elbows propped on the wooden surface with his fingers laced together.

“Half of what I get from each audio goes straight to your pocket. Isn’t that more than enough? But of course—“ His plump lips curve up into a smirk.

“I know the sex is something you’d enjoy as well.” The perverted words coming out from his mouth is a clear juxtaposition mixed in with his boyish appearance.

The silence was getting too thick, and Armin proceeded to explain, “As you know, Annie quit. I never planned on having a partner in my audios, however, ever since her appearance, my patreon subscribers have nearly doubled. Do you understand now?”

As much as the deal will benefit you tremendously, you couldn’t help but bring up the obvious. “What if Annie finds out about this?”

“If you’re feeling guilty, then you should know that she’s the one that broke it off with me. And it’s part of your job to be discreet about this. Tell one person, even Eren, and the deal’s off-“ He seemed as if he was going to say something else, however he kept his mouth shut.

“You’re acting like I would ever mention you to Eren. I’ve been sleeping with the guy for fuck’s sake. And plus, you aren’t really that special, Armin.” Your lip perked up into a small smirk, a little part of you hoping that your harsh words are jabbing his ego.

“Good. Keep it that way.” For some reason, his responses kept pissing you off.

You stand up and slam your palms down on the table. “Okay, I will! God, you’re insufferable.” Your face was heating up from built up wrath, Armin’s lack of response only making you want to flip the table over. The reason why you’re so angry is something you fail to answer yourself.

He stands up from his chair after a few seconds. “Oh really?”

“Yeah, you’re getting on my goddamn nerves.” You turn your face away from him.

That’s too bad…” Walking towards you, he grabs your chin to look him in the eye. His grip was tight, any longer and your face would bruise. You could see your vulnerable state through the reflection of his specs, his sapphire irises showed nothing but purity, yet his words were bordering evil.

“Fucking deal with it then.” He scoffed tauntingly before clashing his lips against yours. You clawed on his t-shirt as he transferred his bruising grip onto your waist, ultimately pushing you against the ledge of the table. The cold coffee mug that Annie left on top of the wooden slab rattled, but that didn’t stop you from pulling Armin by the collar and shoving him, the both of you switching positions. He whimpered against your mouth from the slight ache of his lower back, giving you an opportunity to slip your tongue inside, your teeth ramming into his bottom lip.

You pull out for a moment to get a breath of fresh air, panting in between soft kisses, “Let’s go to my room.”

Armin huffs, “Can I record?”

You roll your eyes, slowly inching away from him while having your hand twisted on his collar. “What else would you want to do this for?” It would’ve been easier to just say yes, but that just isn’t you.

By holding his wrist, you led him to your bedroom. When you get in, you turn around and he shows you his phone with a voice memo app on and recording.

Of course, your curious self also wants to know the specifics of his content. “Don’t you use a mic?”

He shrugs, and walks past you to place his phone face down on your nightstand. “Only when I’m alone, easier to manage and all.” He strolls towards you, cupping your face gently and using his thumb to caress your cheekbones.

Your cheeks were bunched up in his hand, lips forced into a pucker as he whispers, “Just pretend like the phone isn’t even there, okay?” With that, he locked his lips with yours tenderly, an clear opposition to his prior behavior. One of his hands is already under your shirt while the other is on your shoulder, slowly easing you into your mattress.

As you trail kisses from the corner of his lips down to his neck, you mumble, “I wanna suck you off…”, pausing him of his attempt on laying you on the bed.

He showed no sign of retaliation, urging you to unbutton his pants to pull it down. You kneeled on the carpet ground as his trousers reached his ankles, the rough surface prickling your kneecaps already. You notice a bump poking out of his boxers, the view of it all from just his toned thighs and the sneak view of his pelvis already got you gulping.

Curling your fingers on the garter of his underwear, you pull it down, his cock popping out in all its glory.

The description you’ve been picturing in your head about what this would look like is way better than what your imagination could fathom. His tip is flushed pink, just oozing with beads of white, and it’s long enough that it curves up, perfect for hitting that sweet spot of yours. There’s also a vein that protrudes through the middle of the shaft to the tip, your pupils dilating at the sight.

You’ve had your fair share of dicks, this one might be the prettiest one.

You shimmy a little closer to grab his cock for the first time and holy shit, it feels surreal. Palm wrapped around him, you start moving your hand up and down as your lips get closer to his tip. There were no reactions from him, you looked up and he just stared with a dull expression, arms crossed as if he was bored.

Well, that was the case until your lips made contact with the slit seeping with precum, licking it up and sticking your tongue out to show him what you’ve done. That whimper was a sign that you found his sensitive spot.

Well, that was fast.

You glanced up at him as you took his cock in between your lips. He grips his fingers on the back of your head and pushes you until his tip slammed the back of your throat. Squealing, he proceeded on using your throat as his personal flesh light, saliva frothing and dribbling down your chin.

“Oh- yeah, keep suckin’ it just like that, ah–” He chuckles, his cock nearly stretching your throat, swollen lips pressing up against his balls. You latched your nails onto his thick thighs for leverage, head bobbing up and down as your tongue swirled all around his lengthy cock. Tears brimmed your waterline, mascara staining your cheeks.

You were taking it like a champ, you barely made any gurgling noises that implied that you were gagging despite the minimal allowance he allowed you to breathe. He thought it was quite impressive.

Caving your cheeks in, you groaned from the pang of your jaw, the vibrations causing him to squirm. “Oh yeah… ah fuck yeah…” The series of whimpers and curses echoing around your room sent chills down your pussy, it really is so much better live.

You couldn’t help but giggle to yourself, amused at his change of tone just from a pair of lips on his cock.

The more you think about it, the more you’re starting to put the pieces on the puzzle. Armin does have a really distinct undertone of a British accent in his speech.

It’s not too noticeable to people who don’t pay attention, but in your case, you’ve heard hours worth of just his voice. When he’s under the facade of Euphoria, his deep, husked voice has that similar British accent, voice gradually becoming higher pitched as he reaches his high.

“Fuck baby, hah- you— don’t stop.” He mewls, voice strained, your chin soaked with saliva. You pulled off with a gasp, a strand of spit connecting your lips and his tip. Smirking, you palm his cock and jerk him off, blinking up at him with innocent eyes. He couldn’t protest even if he wanted to, only being able to moan until his throat went dry.

Clearing your throat, you taunt, “You’re so cute, can’t wait to cum in my mouth don’t you?” You hadn’t expected Armin to heed to you, he just nodded in desperation, his cock twitching the more you slid your hand along him.

“Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh fuckkkk— hah—!” He stiffens, gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut as he lets it all spill out. It didn’t take long until you felt the strings of warm, ivory cum spurting all over your lips as he moaned out loud, nearly choking on his own saliva. You stood up, knees weak and wobbly, licking your lips to collect his seed in your tongue while you pulled him by the collar in for an eager kiss, forcing him to taste himself.

Parting from him, you grin, “You taste amazing.” self-confidence off the roof from making him cum as hard as his voice has made you these past months.

He laughs faintly, “It’s your turn, baby.”

The phone recording every sound you make had already slipped your mind by this point, as Euphoria would’ve preferred. You grab the bottom hem of his t-shirt, pulling it up and over his chest, which Armin was willing to do the honors of discarding it completely, letting it plop on the floor.

All you could think about was that Armin is fucking gorgeous. You just assumed he was cute and adorable because of his boyish complexion, but he’s built like a Greek statue under the sweaters and cargos he’s often clad in. His skin was smooth, arms toned, chest chiseled perfectly with his subtle abs, and a perfect v-line connecting to the sole thing you’ve been looking forward to feeling inside you.

Likewise, you cross your arms to take your top off to toss it somewhere in your room. Your lack of bra, nipples stiff and perked had Armin’s lips pursed into what you assume is anticipation. Maybe you were moving way too slow for his liking, methodically slipping your skimpy shorts off along with your panties, because Armin didn’t even wait for you to kick the garments off to the side before spinning you around, your back against the near ledge of your plush mattress.

Your brain could barely register what just happened, it took seconds before you realized that your legs are being pried apart with his head in between.

Armin muses, taking off the shorts and panty that hung off your ankle to throw it across the room. “You’re going to have to move much faster next time, yeah? I don’t like waiting.” The sternness in his voice only caused you to leak more than you already have been, bare pussy gleaming with your arousal. You could only nod and hum a compliant ‘mhm’, the cool breeze of the centralized AC wafting past your wet cunt, heightening your sensitivity.

The warm contact between your clit and the apex of his tongue evoked a curse slip past your lips. Teasing you, he proceeded in kitten licking the same spot til it was swollen and raw, already leaving your desperate cunt leaking all over the sheets beneath you. It was shocking honestly, how quickly you released, little spurts of squirt seeping down your ass while Armin teased. You squirmed, the back of your head digging against the plush mattress as you reach your brief high.

He chuckles, “So soon? I just started, love.” He rolled his thumb back and forth on your throbbing clit, while using two fingers to split your folds apart, eyeing the round orbs of slick rolling down to the sheets.

Trembling from overstimulation despite barely being touched, you weep, “Need more… I need you so bad,” Armin poked his tongue in between your folds, tapping at your wet hole without giving his thumb a break. Your hands latched onto his locks, pushing him down the heat of your cunt.

The warmth of his saliva pooling in between his mouth and your pussy dripped down his chin, the mixed noises of slurping and moans echoing in your room. Your thighs were shaking, threatening to clamp onto Armin’s head, however he didn’t let you— gripping onto the plump of your thighs and forcing them wide apart, letting the cold air hit your pussy.

Your legs were spread on the bed, allowing you to really feel how good Armin’s tongue feels inside of you. His licks were tight and precise as it grazed your throbbing hole, his nose buried just right under your clit.

He takes a breather, blowing on the heat of your cunt as he plugged two fingers deep past your hole, feeling your walls clench around the ridges of his knuckles. “You’re gonna have to hold it this time, love.” The request is nearly impossible when he’s curling his fingers in, making you whimper in resistance.

The occasional giggles he would have matched with his lewd sucking were more than enough to draw another orgasm out of you. His voice was truly mesmerizing, any word that rolls off his tongue can get you soaked.

Waiting for your response was none of Armin’s concern, he plunged his fingers with ease, eyes glimmered with nothing but awe at the sticky mess he’s creating in between your legs. The ache of his balls was starting to get unbearable, tingling with his filthiest urges. As much as he wanted to punish and ruin you for reasons he couldn’t clearly answer himself, there’s nothing more he wants than to pound you into the bed.

Armin lowers his head, lips reaching to nip at your clit, his fingers reaching the spot that emitted a sharp gasp from you, crimson lips from biting them so much turning into an ‘o’. Your pussy down to the base of your ass is coated with a sheen of your slick, Armin pushing the plump of your left inner thigh on the mattress to prevent closing your legs.

He reveres, “Been waiting for this since you left earlier… ‘never seen such a pretty pussy,” He was rambling, but he wasn’t far off from the truth.

“Hahhhh— yeah, fuck, that’s it—!” Your groan nearly reached the pit of your stomach, tears brimming your eyes before panting sporadically, just waiting for that sweet voice of affirmation to give you permission.

He cleared his throat before chuckling, “Show me how it’s done, doll.” You were a mess to say the least. Hands pressed up on your chest to push your breasts together, letting a clear stream of fluid projectile on Armin’s lips as soon as he pulled his fingers out while you struggled to breathe.

Small spurts kept spraying out of your needy little hole, Armin tapping on your clit with the tips of his fingers, a little force inflicted in his touch which provoked a frail moan out of you.

He stands upright, knees sore from digging them in the ground. Hunching over your frame, his shadow cowering over your body, he sees you in all your glory, drowsy and fucked out. He’s not even done with you and you’ve already given out.

He mutters, face leaning closer to yours, lips just barely against your ear, “Are you sure you don’t want more?” Every fiber of your being is telling you to sleep, but your mind is telling you to let him use you like you’re nothing but a mere doll.

“I do… ‘need you inside me…” your pathetic pleas is something Armin couldn’t resist, the twitch of his cock from your dulcet tone mixed in with your disgusting words almost made him impatient. Chuckling, he stands back up and you watch while he preps himself, fucking his fat cock into his fist, his thumb smearing off the leaking bead of precum.

You stare at the ceiling, mouth agape when he placed his cock in between your folds, savoring the snug feeling of your wet pussy as he slid himself up and down, tip knocking on your clit. Your reflexes kicked in and you lifted your ass up a bit, rolling your hips to match his pace. Your little whimpers, body shaking from having to hold your weight on your elbows, Armin couldn’t help but place his hands all over you, thumb pressed on your lip while the other played with your pert nipple.

His hand was locked on your jaw while you nipped on his thumb, forcing your eyes on him. It’s hard to say that he isn’t absolutely gorgeous when he’s under that innocent facade that he likes to pull.

Golden strands of hair were stuck on his forehead, collarbones and his abs sheened with sweat. He chuckles when he notices the drool seeping out of your lips and on his thumb. “Are you ready?” Still rocking his cock back and forth slowly, you nod to give him the green light. Letting your jaw go, your head falls back on the bed as he positions one of your legs against his chest while you gently wrap your fingers around his cock, pointing his tip right on your hole.

Armin grins at your eagerness, rutting his hips to let his cock nudge into your pussy, walls sucking him in, welcoming him inside you so kindly. You couldn’t help but moan, neck stretched to throw your head further into the mattress. He presses on your tummy with his palm, squeezing on the plump of your skin as he taunts you by keeping stationary, dick barely halfway through.

He hacks out a laugh, while he stares in adoration at the way you’re bouncing your hips, desperate for the need for stimulation. The sticky, wet noise of your pussy rubbing around his cock just tells him how much you’ve wanted this. Just how pathetic you’d get for some dick.

In your defense, him being halfway through was enough to get yourself off, his girth was enough to stretch you apart. Hell, just hearing his voice can make you cum with just a finger.

His hands grabbed ahold of your waist, nimble fingers squeezing on the pudge of your skin. His lips were curved into a smile, “You have to wait for me, pretty. Is that okay, hm?” His hum sprung into a high pitched tone as opposed to the rest of his sentence. Of course you listened, you were in heat and you’ve been touching yourself to that exact same tone more often than not.

Armin kneaded on your waist with the pads of his thumbs while meticulously sheathing himself inside you. He stopped when he had filled you up to the hilt, quickly glancing at your gorgeous face one more time before pulling out and slamming his hips against yours. You shiver, a little whimper drifting past your lips, followed with a huff to catch your breath again.

However, he stays cruel with his treatment, vehemently fucking into you in a pace that caught air stuck in your throat. You struggled to find the correct words to egg him on, but what you didn’t know was that your moans and your presence itself was more than enough to make his balls twinge.

Propping your elbows onto the duvet of your mattress, you tuck your chin in to look at the work being done on your cunt. His cock was splitting you in half, his base coated with your arousal mixed in with his pre. Your abdomen was tight while he pushed your lifted leg closer to your body. Flexibility isn’t exactly your forte, but you had him to thank for drilling into you in this angle.

His cock might not be as girthy as Eren’s, but he knew how to give a good fuck. After all, Eren is an exception. No one can compare with him in terms of size.

So it’s hard to admit that he makes Eren seem like an amateur in everything else.

Expected from Euphoria, but surprising for Armin.

He swung your leg to the side, lifting it off the bed and leaving one of your ass cheeks on the bed, letting the rest of your body move sideways. His swift movement left you dumbfounded, you were babbling nonsense as he plunged into your seeping cunt, thighs slathered with your arousal. Armin coos as he panted, “Fuck, yeah. Love it. ‘Love your wet pussy milking me so well.” His string of whimpers and curses dominated yours, you’ve never met another man this vocal in bed.

Your grip on his cock had left his head blank, he was practically acting on instinct by the way he’s digging into you, the sheets rustling with each thrust. Saliva bubbles on the corner of your lips, dribbling down the mattress in uneven shapes. You cry, “Please, baby. ‘Need you to cum inside…” Almost every inch of your body was aching— yet you yearned for it. One of your forearms was pressed onto the linen sheets and the more he moved, the more it burned from friction.

Armin groans, hips still stagnant in speed, “Hm? Want me to fill you full of cum? Such a dirty slut…” Your cunt was so welcoming to him, sucking him in like there’s no tomorrow. The sight of your titties bouncing in sync with his pounding had made him eager to strike it with the heat of his palm, igniting a sharp, quick gasp from you. You turn your head, shooting a glance at him, mildly surprised at what he just did. His once sapphire eyes were hooded with pure animalistic lust and your lack of retaliation only provoked him to do it again, watching as your boob jiggled against the other, soaking up on the whines you’d make in response.

He amped up the speed of his cock, balls grazing your inner thigh. In accordance, his moans were being drawn out in higher pitches, those sweet familiar tunes that you sleep to every night. “Hah— shit, I watched you get fucked by him the other day, yet I don’t remember you being like this.” He didn’t need to elaborate on who he’s talking about. You knew.

And he expects you to answer. He couldn’t care less about the recording. In fact, this could even be good material for his content.

“I- ah— he wasn’t—“ you’re mumbling, distracted by the sheer length of Armin’s cock filling you to the brim, battering onto the same squishy spot that got you yelping.

“He wasn’t what?” He wants to hear it although the answer is quite clear already.

You glare at him with half lidded eyes, stammering, “Shut— the fu-fuck up and make me cum already damn—“ Him bringing up someone else while destroying your insides was pissing you off, it was giving insecurity. Although it did cross your mind that it might be because he wants to milk you for content; figuratively and literally.

Armin hisses as his hips staggered in speed, now clapping his hips in slow, deep strokes. “Hahh, you’re so ambitious— ngh—” His sentences likewise weren’t coherent, his release basically sitting at the entrance of his tip, ready to stuff you full.

The change between his quick, powerful thrusts versus the sensual strokes had left your mouth hanging, nearly shrieking. “Please… I wanna— ah—!” Armin dropped your cramping leg back down, putting all his weight on the bed as he lodged his cock into you at a faltering pace, fists practically embedded onto the mattress.

He’s so painstakingly close, using up the last of his strength to plow into you one more time, stuffing you full of cum. The cute little twitch his cock made after emptying into you was what drew you to your high. Armin’s head flew back as you both went silent for a quick second before simultaneously groaning at the feeling of release flowing throughout your spine and the rest of your body.

Armin’s breathing stuttered as he managed to jest, “So much fucking cum…” keeping himself plugged into you as you felt viscous, milky consitency seep out of your hole and down your ass. The pit of your stomach felt warm and full as you pressed onto it with your frail hand to check if this is actually happening to you right now.

If you were really just fucked stupid by the man of your wet dreams.

He slouches down to capture your lips once more, feeling regenerated while you nibble on his bottom lip. You both open your eyes, bringing your hand up to brush his cheek with your warm palm. You manage to perk your lips into a small smile before he leans in to give you another peck. For a moment, it felt real. The kiss felt so genuine and you’ve found what people in love call connection.

But this isn’t love. This is just two people practicing their lustful desires onto each other.

You don’t even know him.

Pulling out, his limp cock twitched at the cool air, glazed with pure, translucent white. You sigh at the hollow feeling, thick ropes of cum oozing onto the soft sheets.

Armin stands up and picks up the clothes that splayed onto the ground, handing yours back to you as he starts to dress himself. He asks as he takes his phone to stop the recording, “Everything good?” His smile was innocent and it still catches you off guard.

You nod, composing yourself by getting a tissue from the nightstand to wipe the mess in between your legs “yeah… thanks.” Not caring enough to put shorts back on as no one else was home anyways, you led Armin to your front door with nothing but a fresh tee and your underwear on.

“I had a good time. Thank you, Armin.” If you were going to be working with him, being on good terms wouldn’t be the worst thing ever. Being friendly towards him is your best course of action.

“Me too. You were amazing.” was all he said. Your cell phone dinged from your hand and you held it up, unaware that Armin saw it as well.

It was a text from Eren.

’Can we talk?’

You closed your phone quickly, not being able to do anything but sigh at the complications of your, relation— well— situationships.

“Well, good night. Have fun on your date.” Armin caresses your cheekbone with his thumb before you bid him farewell, your heart pitter pattering with each second as you watch him disappear into the shadow of the hallway.

Something about Eren’s text doesn’t feel… casual.

You’re not in a relationship whatsoever, so why?

Why does it feel like you’re being disloyal?

[lexirosewrites]

I had a horrifying omegaverse idea. Dont mind if you wait for Sunday. I know you normally have Steve as an omega, but just this once:

Omegas in heat are in genuine danger around alphas. A few, mostly ignored, people claim that alphas can control themselves if they really want to, but there are many cases of Alphas injuring themselves, to the tune of breaking their own bones, to get to an omega in heat. There are suppressants that can help, but they’re not a sure thing and alpha centric society means that it’s seen as demeaning for alphas to have to limit themselves.

What society has managed is really really good suppressants for omegas. Every society has had some kind of suppressant all the way back to prehistory, but modern medicine is a wonder. It almost completely wipes out the pheromones that make alphas lose it. And sure, omegas have to pay for the suppressants, and take them for the entire month leading up to their heat, and the list of side effects is hella long, but no omega risks doing otherwise. An omega in heat who gets caught can comply, and hope they don’t get forcibly mated, or they can resist, and hope the alpha doesn’t go into a frenzy and kill them.

During puberty, when kids are heading into presentations, there are weekly blood prick tests, and any indication of a spike in hormones sees the kid off to a special secure medical units, staffed by betas, to keep them safe. Alphas get mild sedatives and a space without anything to hurt themselves or others with. Omegas get personal guards, similar rooms, and pain meds. After, alphas go about their lives, a little smug. Omegas go on suppressants, but, they just need to stay home for the three or so days of their heat.

By seventeen, anyone that hasn’t presented is determined to be a beta. 99.9% of presentations happen by age sixteen. The next year is for security. By seventeen, that last .1% has gone down by another 90%.

But late presentations still happen. It’s alphas presenting late usually. 4 out of 5 times. The other is an omega. Those are the stuff of nightmares.

Eddie is a beta. He’s not shocked, almost his entire family is. There’s a cousin or two on one of the branches that were recessive omegas. There’s a guess that a great great great grandpa was an alpha. But Eddie? Definitely a beta.

There’s not a magic formula that causes late presentations, and it happens too rarely and too suddenly for studies to be anything but anecdotal. Almost every late presentation goes… badly… for the omega.

Eddie drops into a presentation heat in the summer of 86, in the middle of the soup aisle. There’s half a dozen alphas in the building, including Steve, who was trying to get the rest of the cream of mushroom from the back of the shelf. Steve, who takes the alpha suppressants daily because he never wants to be like his dad. Steve, who lost some of his secondary sense of smell thanks to the last few years. Steve, who has a hell of a crush, but was never going to say anything about it. Steve, who never wins a fight.

So you have Eddie, terrified, in pain, vicious in his vulnerability, convinced this is how he’s gonna die, because no way in hell is he going to submit to whoever gets to him first. And you have Steve, clinging to control so he can hold off the other alphas long enough for emergency personnel to get there.

ohhh🥺🥺 poor eddie not expecting that and poor steve who just wants to help and is literally the worst fighter known to man!

(side note: i read omega eddie/alpha steve with no issue, even if it’s not what i tend to write. i love seeing different combinations of designations so please throw them all my way!)